MissLeonie.com

My housemate Sarah and I went to visit Gloria Jean’s yesterday. Gloria Jean’s is a coffee shop that’s part of an Australian chain of coffee shops. They were on every street corner in Australia, and I’d often accompany Liam there on trips to fix his caffeine craving. I noticed this particular Gloria Jean’s shop on the bus one day back in September or October, and got really confused. What on earth was this one doing in Nottingham? Perhaps Gloria Jean’s wasn’t Australian after all (cue disappointment)? Or was it Australian-owned and slowly taking over England, making it even more awesome? Turns out it’s the latter (yay!).

Since discovering it, I’ve been meaning to visit. I’ve taken my time - again, I don’t normally go for coffee very often, because I don’t particularly like it. Thankfully, my high expectations (as far as Aussie-ness goes, not coffee, obviously) didn’t stop me from enjoying it all thoroughly. It’s nice to have a little bit of Australia in Nottingham. What’s more, this Gloria Jean’s was very much the same as the Australian ones. The décor was a great mix between dark and cozy, quirky and homely. And they even managed to brew me a cup of coffee I actually enjoyed. The passion fruit cheesecake that beckoned me from the display window was wonderful too. Suffice to say, I’ll be coming back.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard this bmibaby flight to Birmingham.” Hang on, hang on, hang on, I’m on the wrong plane! I turn around with a look of panic in my eyes, hoping, nay, praying that someone else will look just as confused and worried as I undoubtedly am. Everywhere, people were telling each other that the cabin crew member had probably just made a mistake out of habit. His English wasn’t exactly stellar to begin with, so we could also just have heard him wrong. Collectively.

But no. Birmingham it was. The crew had been told all passengers had already been informed. Only we hadn’t been. Imagine getting on a plane and hearing it’s going to fly to a completely different destination. Not because there was anything wrong at East Midlands Airport, but because bmibaby wanted the plane in Birmingham. Never mind that the plane boarding next to ours was also flying to Birmingham as it should be. I guess paying passenger’s time isn’t as valuable as random company flights of fancy. I’ll be emailing them with a formal complaint. It’s a good thing that bmibaby don’t do long haul flights. Trying to get to Australia could very well land you in Argentina.

Anyway, we were flown to Birmingham, where coaches were waiting to transport us back to East Midlands Airport. Once there, I got on the Skylink to Nottingham, then on my regular bus from the train station, after which I walked home. I opened the front door, and for the first time since I moved here, it actually felt a little bit like home. More about that later.

PS. The photo I used to make the graphic for this post was taken with my phone on a moving vehicle. Apologies about the crap quality.

I have finally worked out how I ended up on the hobo bag site, and I love the sites that helped me get there so much that I think it’s only fair I explain how.

The lovely Loobylu linked to How About Orange as part of her March links. How About Orange is the personal website of designer Jessica Jones, who linked to J. Caroline Creative and her Hobo Bag pattern, which I talked about in an earlier post. Turns out that the gorgeous fabric used to make the example hobo bag was actually designed by Jessica Jones. It allll makes sense to me now.

Anyway, I’m loving How About Orange so much that I’m going to add it to the links section. It’s well-designed, diverse yet interesting, and an original mix of design, craft and personal stories.

Over the last couple of days, a frantic obsession with paper handkerchiefs has settled in my street. They are halved, folded and turned into white roses.

It’s the 50th wedding anniversary of a couple in our street, and with big anniversaries come big traditions in this area of the Netherlands. The roses go in little christmas trees, which form a little lane way from the front door. It’s all done in supposed secret by neighbours. And it’s well worth it once you see the lit up faces of the couple discovering the forest in their driveway.

I don’t think they do it anywhere else in the Netherlands, but it’s a lovely and warm decorating tradition.

Yesterday, I bought some (East) India(n)/Chinese/whatever you want to call this black waterproof ink and started experimenting with it. I’d read about it being used in addition to watercolours, and thought of a few ways in which I could use it. In addition, I stumbled across an old wooden box filled with pencils and two nib pens. This could be the synchronicity Élena (from FrenchToastGirl.com) talks about here. I’ve been linking to her website a lot lately (and may have done a little happy dance when she left me comment. Oh OK, it was a big one!), mainly because I’m in awe of her dedication and commitment to being creative.

I’m only recently playing around in the field of creativity again. I’m not sure what kept me all these years, but the closest label I can think of is a mix between perfectionism and failure anxiety. Whatever we want to call it, it’s been a real road block. It cut off the road to creativity a long time ago when I was just a child, but lately, I’ve found it creeping up on me in every aspect of my life. Enough is enough. Creativity is where the fear started, creativity is where it will start to stop.

Élena writes that she came about the concept of synchronicity when she read The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron. Yesterday I googled the book and came across so many other useful links. It’s strange, because I started off googling Marjolein Bastin, a Dutch watercolour artist who I greatly admire, and I ended up on a website about journal keeping. I used to write in my diary religiously, every day, pages and pages long. In the summer of 2006, before I went to Australia for the first time, I stopped. It was a conscious decision to put effort into experiencing before documenting. It worked a treat because I savoured every moment of time I had there. I started this website once I got to Australia, chronicling my Aussie adventures. It was mostly short, snappy and a combination of photography, graphic design and writing - I enjoyed the process tremendously. The format automatically limited the length of the entries so that the writing did not get in the way of, well, of life.

Anyway, through researching Marjolein Bastin, I ended up on a website about journalling. The journal keeping website spoke of The Artist’s Way as well, and linked to a website, which in turn linked to a few articles about the main ideas in that book. I checked the univerisity library catalogue, and it has a copy of Julia Cameron’s book. Once I get back, I’m going to borrow it and work through its 12 week programme of getting back to being creative, or at least free to be as creative as I want to be. I’m looking forward to losing the fear and enjoying the trip.

If you ask me, the universe is trying to show me something, now that the door to creativity has been opened an inch or two. From Marjolein Bastin to journal keeping, which in itself is a significant part of The Artist’s Way, to a mention of the Cameron’s book on the journal keeping website. Finding the nib pens. Going to an art shop and finding a bottle of ink just small enough as not to induce commitment-phobia. In addition, a few days ago I suddenly remembered what I used to want to be as a kid, my heartfelt answer to the “when I grow up” clause. I wanted to write my own children’s books and illustrate them all by myself. It seems I’ve got a bit lost on the path, but it’s never too late to start making my way back.

This afternoon, I drew a tulip based on the ones on the cover of my journal. I’m quite happy with the results and currently contemplating whether I’ll add some watercolour to it or not. I drew something! From scratch! With deep black, non-erasable ink! And you know what? I smudged it a bit here and there, and it doesn’t matter a thing. I drew something, and I’m happy with it. So there!

By the way, all of this creativity business was concocted with aide from the epic, energetic tune that is Coldplay’s Viva La Vida. It is about a gazillion times better than Violet Hill, with a soundtrack quality that conjures up images of galloping horses and brave battles, and nostalgic lyrics to suit my creating moods. I like it.

I received a bit of disappointing news yesterday. The job I hoped I had lined up after the completion of my dissertation fell through, and now I don’t know what to do. Ideally, I would like to go to Australia in January next year. I don’t know for how long or anything like that, I just want to go for a while. However, in order to go, I will need money. Now who is going to hire someone with an MA in Literary Linguistics? What’s more, who is going to hire someone like that within a 15km radius? I can’t drive to work, because I don’t have a license, let alone a car. I’m wholly dependent on being able to cycle to work. To make matters worse, my bike, which I lent to my sister, has finally broken down, so I don’t even have a bike anymore.

What the hell am I going to do? And how on earth am I going to get through this dissertation writing period without something to look forward to? The way I see it now, I may have just enough money to take lessons and an exam to get the driving license. After that… we’ll see.

Update: After that, and before that even, you confide in your mum that you’re scared as hell, and the two of you work out a plan of action. It will be OK. It might not be easy, but I have an awesome support network. It will work out eventually.

I spent today working on my little summer dress. You can tell I’m taking it really seriously by how hard I’m trying not to let my tongue escape my mouth because I know my mum is taking a photo in the first picture.

It’s almost done. In fact, it’s wearable now, it just needs some small cosmetic surgery in the vain of hemming and the like. I’ve really enjoyed this little project so far. It is a way for me to challenge my (mild and self-diagnosed) form of failure anxiety. What’s that, Leonie, you think you can’t sew? Myth busted!

Turns out I even have my own sewing machine. Evidently, there is no escape. It used to be my grandmother’s, and now it belongs to my sister and me. It needs a good hug and cuddle with some oil first, though. It was literally crying out for it when I gave it a test run. Now there’s a future project.

Pictures of the finished dress tomorrow. Ish.

“Welcome to the Belgrade, let’s go crazy!” said an over-excited presenter in the middle of Belgrade Eurovision celebrations. Ahh, it’s that time of the year again.

It’s become a bit of a tradition for my mother and I to watch the annual Eurovision Songfestival together. There is something about a mix of broken English and heartfelt lyrics in gibberish that just never loses its appeal. It is absolutely essential to one’s enjoyment of the whole thing to consider it from the right perspective. You see, this competition has nothing to do with songs. It is more of a variety comedy show, especially if you remember to watch it on BBC1. Terry Wogan, the English commentator, gets progressively more sarcastic as the night progresses, ridiculing people’s hair and the never surprising outcome of douze points to whichever country we share a border with.

I really liked Israel’s entry, and the Armenian entry was catchy with an interesting mix of ethnic influences (”Keep an ear out for the well-known Armenian nose flute!” said Mr Wogan). Norway was a beautiful jazzy number that would have fit right in on a Bridget Jones soundtrack. In stark constrast, Finland sent some poor glam rock revival act (complete with the long, frizzy hair and tight leather trousers) that tickled my funny bone at every close up shot of two band band members sans shirt trying really, really, really hard to look scary, but only managing “scared” instead. Wogan remarked at the end of the song, “I don’t know about you, but I think they could have done with some conditioning.” Now, as much as I liked Israel and Armenia, it is a fact that if a song is to Western European liking, it will not win. Therefore, my money is on Azerbaijan with its Meatloaf/Jesus Christ Superstar crossover depicting good and bad angels, complete with man-sized white boa feathered wings. It’s terrific Heaven On Their Minds-style over the top drama that is so ridiculous I can’t help but love it. It features a black (bad! very bad!) angel pouring a bottle of red wine over a co-fallen angel rubbing her back all over his lap, how could it not win? Plus, the bad angels turn good in the end, and the fallen angel’s bass voice suddenly matches his holier counterpart’s falsetto! Listen up, kids, be good and you will sound as though you’re balls were forcibly removed!

How can you not love a festival that has an American girl singing for Poland, or rather, a native speaker of English, attempting to regurgitate some of Céline Dion’s B-sides? Never mind that I couldn’t make out a word of what she was singing, it was amusing even if we temporarily disregard my obsession with her larger-than-life and whiter than white teeth. As for casual observations: I’m fairly sure the woman performing for Sweden in a silver shimmery number was actually a man. And if the Spanish entry is to be believed, they dance the cheeky cheeky out there and you can too, if you still remember the Robot. It also looks as if it may be a Russian custom to wear two pairs of socks in your trousers if you must appear in a tight weight-lifting outfit for a little intro for your song. Alternatively, you could skate around the singer like you haven’t a clue about what’s going on but are loving every minute of it. LOVING IT. DID YOU NOTICE I’M LOVING IT? HOW ABOUT YOU IN THE BACK ROWS? I COULD DO ANOTHER CIRCLE AROUND THE LEAD SINGER IF THAT HELPS?! That works, I guess. The sheer look of joy on the face of the desperately confused but HAPPY individual made it just that much better.

Countries I hated:

• Bosnia-Herzegovina (Please, legally stupid children dressed up as dolls pretending to be monkeys? Doesn’t the country have laws? Catchy, but the guy couldn’t sing on key to save his life, and his sister… she had to play a monkey.)
• Germany. Two words: off key. Here’s one more: boring.
• Spain. The robot? Seriously?
• France. Someone give this poor man a ticket back to the 60s. When did France manage time-travelling?

Countries I loved:

• Armenia. Sexy yet not slutty. Are you watching, every other country that sent a reasonably attractive female this year?
• Serbia. Thank Christ for traditional, locally influenced ballads.
• Israel. I might consider learning Hebrew now just to understand what stirred him so.
• Norway. Catchy and jazzy.
• Azerbejian. Heh. Just… hee.

PS. All links take you to the BBC Eurovision webpage for the respective countries. You can watch all 43 songs, including the disasters and hopefuls that didn’t make it into the finals here.

If you are going to drive to the local recycling point, you had better also have other business in town. If you are then going to get out of the car and put all your recycling in the correct bin, you really might as well not bother if you keep the engine running the full five minutes it takes you.

Jeez.

Shoes! Three pairs even. The red heels are actually very thin wedge heels. I normally hate wedges, but these shoes are soooo pretty and really, it’s not like I can see the wedge when I wear them. The second pair are some baby blue flats. The third pair are white flats, to replace my beloved white flats who have served my feet for four years and explored London with me. Unlike the old pair, they’re patent leath..-errr-plastic, but they’ll do. For now, anyway. I can’t guarantee I won’t succumb to a nice pair of non-shiny white flats if they cross my path.