The sheer exhaustion that led us to bed at 8pm on Sunday night had us awake and excited at 6am. Heather cooked breakfast, and we planned our day. We ultimately decided that taking a bus tour would make the most sense, as it’d give us some history and a way to get our bearings. Full of eggs and bacon and coffee/Diet Coke, we left the house and set off on our first official London adventure.

We took the tube into central London, ending up at Trafalgar Square. Many pictures were taken, and H braved an iconic red telephone booth that was made of pee. We had some glorious weather, and we spent the morning more or less giddy at the fact that we were in FRICKIN’ LONDON.

national rejoicing!

H and I braved the top the sightseeing bus, which made us regret the decision to not bring jackets in addition to our sweaters. R, being smarter and not as laden with cameras as we were, wisely sat under the heated bus covering. The tour we took was a long one, but it was awesome – the guide was smooth like silk and told us a great deal about what we were seeing. The day clouded over and the wind picked up, but there were so many things to look at so we sucked it up and shivered while squealing and swearing the whole time.

this booth did not smell good.

London is incredible. We saw SO MUCH on the tour, and we barely made a dent in our list of things to see. I don’t know how we did it, but we found ourselves at Big Ben at the stroke of noon and marveled at the sheer ridiculousness of it all. We saw the Tower of London, went over London Bridge (which I am pleased to report was not falling down), St Paul’s Cathedral, enormous parks, Buckingham Palace, the Eye of London, all the history ever, and so much more. Tomorrow will be even better, as we’ll actually go TO these places and not just see them from afar – but even afar was spectacular. So much awesome.

squeeeee!

We were starving at this point, so we hopped off the bus and had lunch at the Sherlock Holmes Pub. R went for a steak and mushroom pie, while H and I enjoyed some fish and chips. Mushy peas: I am not a fan. We walked off our lunch and found ourselves on the tube again: we were going to Harrods. We discussed it over lunch, and it was determined that I was wearing the most decent of all the outfits I had brought to London with me – so if we were going to do Harrods at all, we should do it when we had the greatest chance of my falling within the confines of their dress code. I’m happy to report that my boobs were NOT an issue, and we made it into Harrods (with ten thousand other tourists) to gawk at the sheer opulence of it all. I’ve never really been in the market for things that cost in the tens of thousands of pounds, but if I ever am, I know where to go. We did pick up some souvenirs for ourselves and others, and we went gasping outside from the seething throngs of tourism that Harrods, although iconic, seemed to contain.

this store was frightening opulent.

Ironically, we had all missed Occupy Vancouver due to our travels – but we DID get to Occupy London, so we’re feeling a little closer to the rest of the 99%. Also, we didn’t spend thousand in Harrods. That helped.

We were all getting a little grumpy with soreness at this point, but instead of resting or eating, we continued on our way. A visit to the Lomography Store was in order, and it was amazing (and so expensive). We stumbled upon Ed’s Diner and onto Carnaby Street, which is apparently THE place in London to shop (if you are an incredibly rich hipster). We did wander into a few shops for some minor trinkets, then tubed back to Victoria Station to bus back to the house; utterly worn out and with extremely angry feet.

this was as close as we could afford to get

Tomorrow we’re gonna try to catch a changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace and take a boat tour along the Thames. London is amazing. I’m so glad we’re here!

Also, it’s beyond amusing to see the city undergoing the pre-Olympics renovations. The tour guide kept insisting that London wasn’t usually buried under scaffolding like this; they were just .. y’know, cleaning up before the world gets here. It’s so very much like Vancouver was in 2009 that we can’t help but laugh – even a lot of the promos and signage is the same. We know what you’re in for, London – have fun with that. :)

To bed! We have a Tuesday to take on!

The 9-hour flight to Manchester was largely uneventful. Although we were seated in a child sandwich, one small child was great throughout the whole flight. The other small child was great until the last two hours, which was about the time tempers were short all over and I kind of wanted to lock him in the bathroom. Still, we eventually landed in Manchester, England (England; across the Atlantic Sea) for our brief stopover before our final destination of London Gatwick and a week of sexy European adventures.

Unfortunately, things spiraled out of control the moment we landed in Manchester and our remaining journey was A COMPLETE CLUSTERFUCK.

I fully admit that we traveled cheap – we are peasants in the 99% and can’t afford luxury or competence. Everything on our flight was for sale, from water to booze to a quickie in the loo with a buck-toothed sky hostess. The crew pushed the duty-free goods particularly hard, reminding us every 5 minutes that their prices were significantly better than those on High Street (I do not yet know what a High Street is). In fact, so worried about making sure people purchased duty-free goods were they that the end-of-flight messages consisted entirely of what to do with your purchases and not a lick of information for those not staying in Manchester.

We all had to get off the plane, go through customs, then reboard. Annoying, but whatever. Unfortunately, not a single fucking person knew or had any information about what the Gatwick-bound were supposed to do. They went as far as giving us a laminated green card that said something about a transfer, and .. that was it.

What they neglected to tell us was that after getting the green card (and eventually, they stopped telling people about the cards at all) and going through customs was that we were to NOT go out into the main airport and instead, turn right and follow the signs BACK to our plane so we could continue our journey to London. This would have been extremely useful information to have, but not a single member of our crew or airline thought to actually SHARE this with the passengers. Our flight left an hour after we arrived in Manchester. What’s the worst that could happen?

Renee, Heather and I (henceforth to be known by initials only) hauled out our passports and sailed through customs on account of our not bringing any fish or milk into the UK. From there .. well, we had no idea. At all. We weren’t even slightly aware of a return route to our gate, and there was no signage anywhere (other than those reminding us to shop duty free). We went straight, which was the only logical thing to do at that point .. and promptly found ourselves out of customs and in a baggage area. Well, shit. We looked around and eventually asked someone what the fuck – to which we were told that coming OUT of customs was pretty much the worst thing we could have done, and now we’d have to check in all over again (with no boarding passes) on another floor entirely, go through security again, and get back to our gate. Oh, and we had maybe 30 minutes at this point. Fuck!

We made our way to the ticketing counter in another section of the airport, stood in line, and made it to the counter only to be told we were in the wrong place and we needed to go to the adorably-named “Customer Service” counter. I was full on frothing at this point, a situation made so much better by the CS woman snapping at us when we tried to explain the situation. We weren’t alone, either – two other gentlemen from our flight had done the same, only without the laminated transfer cards as all the crew and gate staff had wandered away from the gate. She summoned someone from the airline to escort us back through security and to our gate, hand-writing us some new boarding cards. With 20 minutes to spare, we made a leisurely tour of the Manchester airport, went through security again, told our story multiple times, walked through a duty-free shopping area with the same size and layout as a flagship Ikea store, passed through some secret doors, and eventually found ourselves right back where we came OFF the plane an hour prior, with a minute or so to spare (final boarding calls are scary). At this point, we had been traveling for 13 hours – and the best was yet to come.

The plane was the same one we came in on, but we didn’t get the same seats even though we paid for assigned seating. Apparently, our plane took on some cargo which had to go in the front hold – so everyone on the plane had to sit in the rear. We got separated, and R and I ended up in the last row of the plane in torturous seats. We then got to listen to the sky clowns attempt to do a headcount SIX TIMES – they lost count each time and had to start again – before we could sit on the tarmac for another 40 minutes as they did paperwork for the inconveniently-weighted cargo we had just taken on. Hooray!

My mood was beyond thunderdome, and I spent the entire time swearing blackly louder than I should have.

Luckily, our flight was a short one and we landed in Gatwick without incident. The weather here was much nicer than in Manchester, and things were looking up .. until we had to sit on the tarmac for an extra thirty minutes because they couldn’t attach the passenger walkway bridge to the plane. Oops! They eventually gave up and brought some stairs for us, and 16 hours after we arrived at YVR to begin our trip, we were safely in London on a gorgeous sunny fall morning.

Oh, but we had to go through customs again, because we weren’t supposed to go through it in Manchester. Oops! Fill out another landing card and off into the giant queue with you!

Several levels past incredulous at this point, we pleaded to a jolly round information man for help. After explaining our situation, he tootled off with Heather’s passport to tell the customs officials that we’d already DONE this, and could we pretty please not do it again? After a delay lengthy enough to make us worry that he had run off to live out his life as Heather, he returned and bellowed out the good word: anyone traveling from Vancouver BC who received a passport stamp in Manchester could take this SUPER SHORTCUT, which led us directly to a customs official who would eyeball the date on our stamp and let us through. HALLELUJAH! Jolly Round Information Man, you were the best part of a long, long trip to London!

We collected our bags, grabbed some cash, and made our way to a) toilets, b) somewhere with coffee, and c) the train to downtown London. I was way too zombie’d at this point to properly marvel at all we were seeing, but before long we were in a cab and on our way to Rob and Andrea’s place, where we were cat-sitting Cleo for the week. Finally, at 1pm local time (5am Vancouver time), we were safely in a place we could take our pants off and lie on the floor spread-eagled for a while with no one disturbing us or secretly farting in our personal bubbles. SHEER BLISS.

Then I fell asleep. H and R went wandering for food, and came back with the two greatest things anyone could give me: a voucher for unlimited data through a UK carrier, and Diet Coke. I love these guys.

Operation: 3G in England went off brilliantly, and all three of us are equipped with really long new phone numbers and more than enough data to last us the week.

Miss Cleo the cat hates us all but loves Renee’s coat, and we are drawing straws to see who gets to feed in the morning in an attempt to win her love.

It’s almost 8pm here, and the girls are asleep – I am only awake because of my brief nap, but I too shall be asleep shortly. Tomorrow bright and early we have an entire country to conquer.

We are here, we are safe, and I am so excited for what comes next I could just pee myself (but I won’t because that is uncouth).

YAY! zzzzz

domo is ready for #occupyplaneseatfortwelvehours - i, on the other hand, am apprehensive

I’ll have wi-fi and 3G access in London, so follow me on any of my ten thousand social outlets for updates (but mostly here, Twitter and Instagram)!

YAY!

I love being championed. Everyone does. It’s an entirely different thing, however, when someone HAS to champion for you. Telling everyone how great I am when it’s unsolicited is awesome; convincing people of how great I am when my head is on the chopping block is less so. Don’t get me wrong; I appreciate the championing – it’s the fact that it has to be done at all that is terrifying and sad-making. Time for an attitude adjustment and maybe some Botox to keep my emotions from displaying on my face so very clearly. *I* think I’m closed and guarded; apparently the rest of the world sees me as an open (filthy) book. This is bad. All those things I think inside my head where no one is looking? EVERYONE IS LOOKING.

I went to the doctor this morning about my hand, because it’s not getting any better and it all hurty and sore. I still can’t make a fist or wear jewellery, and things are all red and yellow and grey. The doctor gave me a tetanus shot, so for the next ten years or so I should be safe from my skeleton collapsing in on itself. I also have a prescription for antibiotics – look, internet! I took your advice! I never do that, so you should be pleased with yourselves. The swelling should hopefully go down soon, but until then, no rings or hand jobs or punching.

By this time tomorrow, I will be at the airport with Heather and Renee and we will be ALMOST ON OUR WAY TO LONDON !! HOORAY!

Okay, off to be not-visibly-angsty now.

The unthinkable has happened: I’ve hit the Diet Coke wall.

I’m starting to cut back on my non-stop Diet Coke consumption. Earlier this week I was happily drinking away when I realized .. this doesn’t really taste all that good. And I’m only drinking it because it’s in front of me. It’s only been a couple of days, but I’m actively monitoring how much Diet Coke I drink and, when thirsty, reaching for water instead. I’m not quitting cold turkey – I still LIKE Diet Coke; I just find that the 4th or 5th can doesn’t taste as good as it used to. I don’t know how long this will go on, but I do know I went a whole Cuban vacation without drinking Diet Coke and I survived easily – so why not try again? If nothing else, it’ll be an adventure. I do so love me an adventure!

Some things, however, are not an adventure – like the festering wounds on my right hand, for example. Last night Lemon forgot he wasn’t being a little asshole anymore, and bit me really fucking hard while I was petting him. I pulled back, but not before he got me really hard on the palm of my right hand – his fangs sunk in in the middle of my palm and between my ring and pinky fingers. I cleaned the holes and doused them with alcohol, but this morning my right hand is stiff and sore. It hurts to use my hand, and I can’t make a fist which is really annoying because I love punching things. Naturally, I’m now convinced I have some sort of rabies and several staph infections not to mention horrible germy cat mouth diseases all up in my hand business. I’ve been ignoring Lemon since last night, and he seems sad (which is really just my imagination – he’s inbred, so a) he always looks sad and b) he’s an asshole; he LIKED biting me), but I suppose I will forgive the little bastard if he tries to be cute at me again. In the meantime, I hurt in my hand. It might fall off. Does my travel insurance cover missing limbs?

seen here: one asshole cat

So, the iPhone 4S. Online reservations opened up last Friday, and while I wasn’t intending to sign up in any kind of hurry, I found myself awake at 4am. My bladder had woken me up, and instead of doing the smart thing and going back to sleep to catch the last few precious moments of rest, I instead picked up my phone and checked Twitter to see if anything interesting had happened in the 4 hours since I had last looked. A friend in Calgary mentioned he was awake because of his newborn, so he took the opportunity to virtually queue up for the new phone. Seeing his tweets reminded me about the online reservations, so I hopped out of bed and went to my computer to see if it was working yet. It was – I was able to log into Roger’s site and (eventually) requested a 64GB (that number still gives me tremors in my panties – SO BIG) Black iPhone 4S. I erroneously assumed that people would be clamoring for the white phones, so I opted for black – but my reasoning was backwards, and I would have been much higher in line had I gone with vanilla instead of chocolate. Still, I got myself all signed up and received my place in line: 545. Satisfied, I crawled back into bed for another hour of sleep before I had to be awake.

I’ve checked the site periodically over the last few days, and my number keeps going up. As of this writing, I’m number 490 in the list – I’ve jumped 55 spots due to people canceling or going with another method. Normally, this would thrill me – it’d mean I’d get my shiny new shiny that much sooner. Hooray! I likely won’t get it on launch day, but I’m sure to get it sooner than anyone in the list behind me!

I kind of forgot about one thing, though.

I’m out of town until the 22nd.

I don’t know how fast they’re going to ship these things, but there’s a very real possibility that I’ll get the notification that my phone is ready for pickup on Monday or Tuesday, and I will be .. well, so far away that Google Maps can’t even calculate the distance between Vancouver BC and London UK. That’s far. No one can pick up the phone but me as I’m the only one on my account, and I will likely have to give up my place in line and wait like some kind of commoner. This is unacceptable, except that I don’t really see a way around it so I kind of have to accept.  Boo! And it was such an awesome plan, too!

It’s annoying, but I can’t find it in myself to care all that much. Worst case scenario I’ll have to wait a little longer; best case I’ll have something to look forward to after my trip. In the grand scheme of my life, this isn’t even a blip. It’s barely a speck. It is a complete non-issue – I just had nothing else to talk about today.

Go away, headache.

My breakfast was missing a little something this morning, so while eating cold eggs I became an ordained minister.

Congratulations! You are now legally ordained for life, though you may relinquish your credentials at any time. AS OF Tuesday the 11th of October 2011 YOU HAVE BECOME A MEMBER OF THE PRESTIGIOUS CLERGY. You have earned a title worthy of admiration and respect.

So, there you go. Admire and respect me, for I have filled out a form online and pressed submit!I don’t have an official certificate – that costs money – but if I sprang the $6.99 + shipping, it would look like this:

in the name of me, amen

Neat!

In addition to now being LITERALLY holier than thou, being ordained allows me to:

• Perform marriages, funerals, baptisms, ceremonial rites, and last rites
• Start my own church, be it brick & mortar or online
• Absolve others of their sins
• Use the title Reverend, Minister, Healer, Educator, and more

HELL HEAVEN YES. This is awesome! Who wants to be absolved of some sins? Who will be the first to join the Church of No Pants? All are welcome! Blessed are the children of No Pants, for we are without sin (on account of my absolving people left and right). Also, orgies. They’re holy now, and easier than ever what with the no pants and all. Hooray! I am ordained!

Oh dude I can get a certificate declaring me an official Jedi Knight. AWESOME.

Time to go absolve some sins!

I spent hours on Amazon looking for a book that will help me cope with this startling new turn of events, but there aren’t any. I should go into business for myself: there’s an untapped market just waiting for my special brand of tact and sensitivity to write a series of self-help books. I’ll start slow, and release a title in a familiar format:

an instant best seller!

.. before I branch out into children’s books, Chicken Soup books, and my personal raison d’être, pop-up Choose Your Own Adventure books – all dealing with a special but very real scenario: your crazy bucket-peeing mother has started DATING, and calls you up to tell you about the guy(S)!!!! she has been going out with.

My mom called me last night to give me a hard time for not calling her for Thanksgiving (for which I am grateful – she COULD have complained that I have yet to visit her in Victoria this year), and also to tell me that she’s been going out. On dates. With MEN. I don’t think I’ve ever been so shocked on the phone with my mother before – at no point did it ever, EVER cross my mind that my mother could be interested in dating. Holy SHIT, what flavour of madness is this? Are there men out there who would be attracted to a 66-year-old crazy lady who talks to herself in the third person, repeatedly and non-stoppedly questions animals about their intents, PEES IN BUCKETS, and has walnuts all over the floor? REALLY? Oh god, would they have SEX? I can’t handle this. As far as I know, my mom has had sex once and I was the result so clearly she wouldn’t want to do that again. Oh my GOD what fresh hell is this? My mother has been picking guys up at the grocery store! She went out with taxi driver! Who has an EARRING! She won’t be going out with him again; apparently he was grumpy when she asked why he pulled a U-turn on Hillside and she didn’t like that – OH MY GOD MY MOTHER IS DATING. If I was too old ten years ago when Frank dabbled in Friendly Step-Dad with me, I am practically geriatric at this point. My heart can’t handle this kind of shock. What is she THINKING? OH MY GOD.

If you need me, I’ll be in the corner rocking back and forth freaking the fuck out.

On second thought, maybe I’ll be fine – if nothing else, it could be time for some long-overdue payback for how she treated MY first boyfriend. I will avenge you, first boyfriend!