London Town!

London Town! Think noisy, bustling, red telephone boxes, "mind the gap between the train and the platform", Big Ben, the London Eye, Borough Market and most importantly- Oxford St, where deranged women with tunnel vision spend hours frantically shopping till their hearts content (yes I was admittedly one of them…).

After arriving in London to stay with my good friends Kath and Sam, I immediately shot down to Oxford St with such vigor that you would have thought Oxford St was going to disappear before I got there. With a warm, delicious Starbucks in hand, I ambled down Oxford St, taking in the sights, sounds and smells: Selfridges with the huge red and white Chinese lady standing obscurely on top of the building (no idea who thought that would be a great marketing pull- maybe they were smoking something, but at least it’s a good landmark), the smell of crepes and coffee and the noise of buses and tooting horns. The most interesting part was watching the numerous odd looking people such as the woman with dyed blue curly hair.

I was on a mission- a mission to find boots. Not just any boots (I am very particular), but black, suede, flat, knee length boots- just like my friend Bev’s back in Cape Town which she got from Zara. Well over 2 days of going into every Topshop, Zara, Office and department store I was superbly disappointed to find no suede flat boots. However, to counter that bout of depression, I then arrived at my favourite London chain store, “Primark” which when I looked towards it, seemed to be shining and I could here music in the background- it was although I was being summoned (along with my credit card) and I was powerless to stop it- so I cannot be blamed for any consequences of course. For those of you who don’t know Primark, its kindof the UK’s version of Mr Price, except its loads cheaper and the stuff is nicer and better quality.

I spotted a stunning teal, ¾ sleeve blazer and fell in love and then as I was standing in the payment queue I spotted the same one in a dusty pink. Unable to decide (teal with black jeans and heels in the evening and pink to wear with cream summer dresses or with wedding outfits), I resolved to just buy both (I mean of course I wouldn’t need them in France whilst working on the boats, but hey) and they were only £20 each, which was cheap to what you would have paid in SA. After that, my legs then walked me into a Zara where I saw a BLACK blazer- stunning for work but also could be dressed down with jeans. Now I have been looking for one like this for just about forever (girls you know the one- black with the pinstripe inner lining that you then roll up at the wrists), so that was just a no brainer and I bought that too (mom, dad- you didn’t read that).

Friday I headed to Camden Town with my friend Genia, where the only thing I wanted to do was go and get some Chinese from the dodgy Chinese store in the market. Then Genia and I came across an Aldo Sale Store (OMG) where everything was going for about £10. I showed extreme self control and managed to walk out with just one pair of shoes (I was extremely proud of myself as I could have bought some gorgeous pink heels, but thought better of it as I couldn’t see myself tottering around on a yacht in them).

I had a hilarious catch up with some crazy work friends on the Friday night

and then Saturday morning  I headed to Borough market in London Bridge where the delicious smells wafting about pretty much make you want to close your eyes and float along until you arrive at the delicious smells location. So as you all know, I don’t just like food, I LOVE food, so in true Tiffany style I first started with some Turkish delight, a cup of coffee, some mini falafel things, a spicy sausage that looked like a salami stick, cheese and some crusty bread (yes in that order and yes at 10:30am). Feeling totally stodged and having to secretly undo the top button of my jeans, I decreed that we would walk from London Bridge all the way down to Embankment (about 45min walk) so I wouldn’t feel like such a porker.

We made a huge detour to St Paul’s cathedral only to find out it was about £15 entry, so being the cheapskates we were, decided to just take a peak and then go. We stopped off at the Tate Modern art gallery- okay… now I am fairly cultures, but modern art is just one think I will never appreciate. Sam shared some of my feelings and we laughed at many odd installations that just looked totally ridiculous. I joked that you could literally take a turd and stick it in a glass jar and people would find some intelligent and profound thing to say about it. Well true as God, we then came upon this:

Sam and I chuckled and then snorted with laughter when we read the even more ridiculous “philosophical explanation”:

In the massive installation Lightning with Stag in its Glare (1958-85), the suspended, bronze triangle embodies the energy of a powerful flash of lightning, which illuminates a group of half-formed creatures. The ‘stag’ of the title was originally made from an ironing board and then cast in bright aluminium to suggest the glare of the lightning. The cart represents a goat, and the clods of bronze on the floor are primordial creatures. A small compass, mounted on top of a box, is another reference, with the lightning flash itself, to the natural energies of the earth.

Have you ever?? After that I decided it was totally time for me to go before my blonde brain had a meltdown.

After a lovely day in the country with my cousin and his wife, I then had the daunting task of trying to repack my bag. Now as you will remember from my first blog post, I had to chuck some stuff at CT airport because my bag was too heavy and weighed in finally and just over 23kg with my hand luggage weighing 10. I then find out that easyjet- who was the local carrier I was using to get to Nice- had a 20kg max limit and a restriction on the size of hand luggage. Fuck. I sat staring at my over flowing bag with all my new clothes from London and just felt totally miserable. I was going to have to leave more stuff behind. So sadly the blazers, some tops and dresses had to stay behind and I only JUST managed to sneak my bag onto the plane to Nice. How on earth all my stuff came to 30kg’s was beyond me as when I looked at my clothes it seemed as though I had brought hardly anything (maybe it was the 4 handbags that were taking up space?). London was freezing cold and it gave me a cold, so I couldn’t wait to get to sunny and warm Antibes! Viva le France!

Next blog post- FRANCE with its gorgeous cobbled streets and little cafes on every corner

Eat, Pray, Love - Tiff style

I always wanted to travel the world- when I was single and before I turned 30. So after a pretty sore break up in May and some healing time, I sat thinking “I’m single and I’m almost 28..... It’s now or never”. And after spending the last 8 years in relationships, I thought I would do my own Eat, Pray, Love and set off on an adventure to find myself and have some fun. And so the story begins...

After running around like a blue-arsed fly the weekend before my trip, doing admin that should have been spread over 2 weeks (Tiffany Hutton AKA last minute.com), I said my goodbyes and was surprisingly impressed with myself that i didn’t shed one tear (not even when i said goodbye to Snoopy and Waffles or when my mum cried at the airport) and excitedly boarded my BA flight to JHB. 

On arriving in JHB and taking a leisurely stroll from Terminal B Terminal A, stopping at the pharmacy to get some prescription seasickness meds and going via the Vodacom shop to ensure my international roaming was sorted, I got a sick feeling in my stomach when I arrived at the Etihad check-in counter only to see it in complete darkness with not a soul in site. There must be some mistake I thought, maybe there’s another check-in counter? I mean I didn't exactly check my e-ticket (well how could I, I’d left it at home) but I was pretty sure I would have more than 20mins to get from one Terminal to another. So I made a frantic walk to the ticket desk making a million promises to God If he would only let me get on that plane. 

I was informed by a bored and very unsympathetic sales lady that there was no way I was getting on that flight and after throwing a tantrum, begging and then crying, I admitted defeat and paid the R820 flight change fee. So after phoning my dad in tears (as you do at the age of 27 when anything goes wrong), who insensitively pointed out that this was my fault for “faffing” and not getting to the gate on time, I called a friend in JHB who thankfully agreed to fetch me and put me up for the night. My dad suggested I “sleep on a bench in the airport somewhere” but I haughtily informed him that Constantia girls wouldn’t be seen dead sleeping in an airport and I wouldn’t lower my standards to that level (unless I was drunk and accidentally passed out or something, which knowing me, could have easily been a possibility).

I arrived super early this morning to ensure I didn't royally screw up again, but I was nervous, as my hand luggage weighed a bomb (at least 10kg and the max is 7) so in case that became an issue, I devised a cunning plan (as Baldrick would say “A plan so cunning you could put a tail on it and call it a weasel”). My cunning plan was that if I was told my hand luggage was too heavy, I would go to the nearest shop and buy a giant handbag (as you know women are allowed to take handbags as well as hand luggage and handbags are never weighed) and decant all my heaviest objects in there. My cleverness amazes even me at times. 

The plane turned out to be half empty and I spied a row of 4 middle seats with no one sitting in them, so just before the plane took off I grabbed my belongings and made a b-line for them and spent the next few hours stretched out in full with my goose down travel pillow comfortably under my head. 

I had a rather laborious 8hr day flight to Abu Dhabi and then had a 7hr wait in the airport. So after 4 hazelnut lattes and Skyping and Facebooking everyone I could think of, I decided to take my hand luggage for a walk and do some “window shopping”. After perusing the shops for some time, I ended up in the perfumery, happily sniffing and spraying some delectable scents all over myself. I must have looked like an easy target for the salesman who casually approached me and praised and swooned over the scents I had chosen and then ushered me over to try the new Marc Jacobs. Call it good salesmanship, gullibility, boredom or retail therapy, but I left with a 100ml bottle of Dot, by Marc Jacobs and the salesman with a $110 towards his commission. At least we both left happy.