Somewhere Over The Rainbow Nation

I've been a bit down over the last couple of days. My mom has been sending me news of SA, mostly detailing crimes involving people we know. I'm not going into detail here - every single South African by now personally knows people who have been hijacked, held up in their homes or assaulted, or worse. The stories are so commonplace by now that the first thing we ask is, was anyone hurt? If the answer is no, we shrug it off. If it is yes, then we ask: how bad? If not too bad, we again thank our lucky stars and say how much worse it could have been. We've accepted it as part of daily life. We've become so desensitized, I often wonder how we must appear to people of other countries who don't have to deal with it everyday. But as with any extreme situation, we've simply done what we have to do to survive. If we constantly freaked out about the smallest criminal activity, we'd be in a permanent state of mania.

So the news from my mom, coupled with my frequent thoughts about the shortcomings of my country over the last few days, have served to heighten my sensitivities and put my nerves on edge. Mostly I am afraid in a way that I never used to be. My whole family is back in SA. It feels to me like the crime and general social and economic problems are slowly creeping up to swallow the country, like lava edging down the side of a volcano. So far my immediate family have not been victims. I pray I will always be able to say this is the case. The fear is no longer a niggling thing in the back of my mind - it is well and truly in the forefront and with me every second of the day.

There has been much written on how we should not be prisoners of our own fear. That's all fine, but these authors were talking about those living in SA. And to be honest, when I'm back there, I don't allow the what ifs to dictate the way I live my life. I live it, I'm as careful as I can be and I enjoy every second of being in the beautiful country that I love with all my heart. It is just very different to be this fearful for others and be half a world away. The fear I have for my family is greater than any fear I could feel for myself.

Then, as if she sensed how on edge I was (although she knew nothing about it), this morning Phillygirl e-mailed me this article:

http://www.sundayherald.com/display.var.2032947.0.0.php?act=complaint&cid=1216370

Just to balance it, because I'm a great believer in always looking at both sides of the story, I also visited this site for some updates about what is right in SA:

http://www.sagoodnews.co.za/

For the very first time since I got to the UK, I am having doubts about coming home. It takes a lot for me to admit that, because I love South Africa passionately and anyone who knows me knows I am always the staunchest of defenders against her critics. I will argue til the cows come home with anyone who wants to challenge me on it. But I'm not blind or stupid, and I realise that hoping that I will remain untouched by her troubles forever is naive. Don't worry, you don't need to rush to convince me to come home. At the moment I still plan to. But this is the first time I have had doubts and it is something I have to take into account in a few years time when I'd be making the move.

In other far more joyful news, my best friend is engaged! I'm a little late in reporting this, as everytime I start a post it seems a random thing to tack on the end. Also, it happened when I was at the Commercial Conference, and she couldn't get hold of me to tell me as I was drunk and AWOL - I felt terrible about it the next day!!!Schmokkle and her boyfriend, Man-Bok, have been together for 9 years now. The two of us have known each other since we were 5 years old, when I thought she was retarded because she spoke German (how did you raise me, parents?). Initially there was one other little girl involved in our playgroup, and she and I ended up ganging up on Schmokkle to the point where our mothers wouldn't let us all play together anymore. One of my most vivid memories is of Elke and I sitting up on the roof of Schmokkle's house under her (Schmokkle's) mother's duvet with her jar of sugar, refusing to let Schmokkle come up and join us in eating our sweet treat (and you thought kids wouldn't eat straight up sugar!). We were little bitches. After that, Schmokkle and I didn't see each other that often until our first year of high school, where we discovered we were in the same class. Since we lived less than 5 minutes down the road from each other our whole lives, we started walking to school together and our friendship naturally progressed from there. We've been pretty much inseparable ever since. She's like a sister to me, only without the catfights and stealing of clothes. The name Schmokkle is a derivative of the nickname that we have always used for each other - Bokkie (little buck in English, but generally used as a term of endearment).

I am so unbelievably happy for her, and my only regret is that I can't be there to help her plan the wedding. We'll have to do it the 21st century way, via e-mail! Congrats again Schmokkle, my heart is bursting with pride for you guys. :-)

The Sound of Musical Appliances

Last night the four of us sat around our lounge discussing our new place. I say discussing, but actually we were having a right old bitch. We've wanted to be south west for so long now, but when you're really comfortable somewhere and the new place doesn't quite measure up... well, let's just say we're having teething problems!

Here are our issues - abbreviated for your reading pleasure, as we were on such a roll, the rant lasted a good half hour.

1. It's cold. Not just cool, but cold to the point of needing extra blankets at night, and putting on tracksuits and slippers in the mornings when we come through for breakfast. In Woolwich, our apartment was so warm all year round that we never used our central heating, and jerseys were never worn inside the house. Ever.

2. The washing machine leaks.

3. The geyser takes too long to heat up and barely lasts for 3 showers.

4. The extractor fans for both the bathrooms and the kitchen are located in the storage cupboard (???????????). When you turn them on, they make the most annoying rumbling noises but don't actually extract anything.

5. Flushing the toilets requires both hands with some serious weight behind them. No, really. Unless you have puppies like the Incredible Hulk, the strength of one arm is not enough to get your shit down the pipe. And speaking of that, the suction is pretty bad in said pipes. We get floaters. I'll say no more.

6. The freezer was made for little people who eat miniature food. Perhaps it would be ok for a couple, provided they're not shopping for a whole month. For 4 people who shop weekly and freeze just about everything they buy, there are three words. Taking the piss.

7. The noise. While we have thankfully moved far away from the chavs who haunted our nights, we have a new issue. This is the noisiest house we have ever been in. You can hear the traffic outside 24/7. The washing machine sounds like a cement mixer. The toaster, microwave and dishwasher all beep when they've finished doing their thing, and not just in a normal way, but 5 times louder and more often that your average appliance. The useless extractor fan rumbles like thunder in the storage cupboard. When we're sitting in the lounge watching tv, we have to turn it way up just to hear while the washing machine roars its way through its cycle. Then of course we try and talk, and end up shouting at each other from 2 feet away over the combined cacophony. Peaceful it is not.

I'm sure these kinks will work themselves out, and eventually it will become totally normal and we'll all start to feel at home. In the meantime, we're just doing everything at maximum volume to drown out the background noise. I pity our poor neighbours....

Another One Bites The Duster

I've been rather preoccupied over the past week, hence the lack of posts. The six word memoir was about as much as I felt I could write, but it seems that has generated far more interest in the blogging world than our normal posts, no? I noticed a major increase in the number of comments on everyone's blogs after that. Keep it going guys, I'm definitely looking forward to reading more.

So my preoccupation with this particular thing seems to have subsided. It's not something I want to go into detail about, but I woke up this morning and felt different - lighter, somehow. The final test came when I got into work this morning and found it was still not really present. I can only assume then that for the most part it is over and done with, and I can get back to feeling like my normal self.

This weekend we finally moved from South East to South West London. I get such a thrill from writing out my post code now. For those back home, class consciousness most definitely exists in the UK, but even more than that, where one lives is quite important in determining certain things about a person. For example, a post code that is viewed as being in a low class area can inspire subtle looks or gestures of disapproval to a point where you become embarrassed to tell people where you live. When we first got here I was oblivious to it. Then I woke up to the fact that people would make all sorts of assumptions about me based on where I lived - even though I'm a saffa and I haven't grown up with this scrutiny. In the greater scheme of things, it's actually not that important and it shouldn't matter. However, this is England and it does matter. So besides all the practical reasons for wanting to move South West, one of the more vapid ones is just to have a place with an "acceptable" post code. Yeah!

Moving was a bitch, as it always is, but we're finally unpacked and settled and ready to enjoy our place properly. It took us most of the weekend. We started straight after work on Friday, just Scarf and I blaring Gwen Stefani and trying to pack and dance at the same time, while the boys went to fetch the van. We got an upgrade on our van, so we managed to fit everything in to do one trip. This turned out to be a lifesaver, as we totally underestimated how much time it would take to load everything up.

On Saturday morning the guys drove the load to our new flat, while Scarf and I stayed behind to clean up. We procrastinated a little too much, mostly because we got distracted by the flapjacks and caramel we'd kept behind for lunch, and we ended up running late. Our landlord knocked on the door 10 minutes early, and the kitchen / lounge area still looked like a bomb had hit it. We had to ask him to give us another 10 minutes, and then, my gosh, you have never seen two people clean so quickly. Think the old leathery lady from There's Something Abount Mary - we were twice as fast! After blitzing the place and doing all the necessary meter readings, we went down to Woolwich Arsehole station for the last time and caught our final South Eastern train away from the dump. On the way to London Bridge, we shared a bottle of wine to celebrate new beginnings. It's very chav, but drinking on trains is allowed here, and especially coming from Woolwich, you could probably shoot up some H in the carriage and people wouldn't bat an eyelid. We were a little tipsy by the time we got to LB, so what happened next might have seemed just a litle funnier than it really was.

We were both carrying quite a few bags, packets and other paraphernalia that couldn't fit in the van. One of my parcels included a sling bag over my left shoulder, and our long handled duster was sticking out it. Scarf and I were standing on the escalator going down to the tube; she was one step lower than me facing backwards, and I was facing forwards. In the UK if you want to stand still on the way down, you stand on the right, leaving a narrow space all the way down the left hand side for people who want to walk down. This is pretty much the law - break it at your peril. Anyway, I couldn't see what was happening behind me, but I figured people would be walking down the left hand side as usual. What I didn't realise was that the handle of the duster was swinging into the path of those walking down. I had turned slightly so that it completely blocked the path of the walkway, and it caught an unsuspecting guy in the crotch as he tried to get past me. It didn't only hit him there.....as I turned towards Scarf to say something, the handle started to fondle him quite vigorously. She could see what was happening, and she said later that the poor guy was desperately trying to bat the duster away so he could continue his way down, and possibly also protect his ruffled balls. But he couldn't get past me, and I didn't realise what was happening, so there we stood in a stalemate: him getting a rather raunchy rub-down from a duster and everybody around us having a good chuckle. Finally Scarf grabbed my arm and spun me around so I could see the chaos I was causing, and that was it for us - we laughed until we cried, and this poor dude just scurried down the escalator as fast as he could go. Even writing this now I am laughing, and have just had to explain to Sammy what is so funny.

We haven't really had much of a weekend, and we're all very tired and a little cranky, but we're also all super excited about this summer in London in SW19. Something tells me it's going to be our best yet.

My Six-Word Memoir

I’ve been tagged by Fashionista PDX to do a Six-Word Memoir.

Quoted from Smith Magazine: "Six-Word Memoirs: The Legend

Legend has it that Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. His response? “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Last year, SMITH Magazine re-ignited the recountre by asking our readers for their own six-word memoirs. They sent in short life stories in droves, from the bittersweet (“Cursed with cancer, blessed with friends”) and poignant (“I still make coffee for two”) to the inspirational (“Business school? Bah! Pop music? Hurrah”) and hilarious (“I like big butts, can’t lie”). "

"Feet stayed grounded, heart soared high."

Here are the rules:

1) Write your own six word story.

2) Post it on your blog [and include a visual illustration if you'd like].

3) Link to the person that tagged you in your post [me!], and to the original post if possible [so we can track it as it travels].

4) Tag at least five others with links.

5) Don't forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play.

6) Have fun!

I tag: Phillygirl, KaB, Blondie, Sweets and Angel.

Carnage At The Disco

It's Tuesday afternoon, and I finally feel 100% normal again. I felt a little otherworldly for a while, which is what staying up for 24 hours straight and drinking like there's no tomorrow will to do you. Oh yes, and I haven't even mentioned the obstacle course yet!

We arrived in Scotland at around 10am on Friday, most of us having been up since 6 in order to get to our various departure points. Luckily for me, I flew from London City, which is a half hour's walk/bus ride from my house. It was only once we got to Edinburgh and boarded the coaches for the hour long drive to Gleneagles that we started to get excited.

The hotel itself is gorgeous in a typically British, public school type of way. Think Dead Poet's society, complete with creepers climbing the walls and exotic activities such as Falconry advertised around the grounds. There was even a maze, much to everyone's delight. Plans were made to attempt it in the dark after a few drinks later on, but to my knowledge they never materialised. Everyone was too busy having food fights.

We had a bit of a wait for the crowd who flew from Heathrow's new terminal five. If any of you have been keeping up with the press about that, you'll know it's an absolute balls up, with flights being cancelled or delayed at random. They eventually arrived an hour and half late, which was not too bad, considering I'd previously read a story about a bride who actually missed her own wedding due to the chaos at the airport.

Once everyone was safely inside and had been watered and fed, it was time for speeches. This was the part of the conference where we were supposed to listen, engage and think a bit about the future of our company and what our goals were as a team. In other words, yeah right! We were addressed by our CEO, her deputy and the two senior directors, including Dagwood. What could have been very boring actually turned out to be a funny, cleverly put together presentation that included video clips of staff interviews on all manner of subjects, such as what is our clients' least favourite thing about our company and the top 5 girls and guys - reiminscent of FHM's top 100, but without the bikinis.

After the speeches it was time for class. The theme was Back to School, and our first class of the day was Art. We were divided into teams and given a painting to do. Each team got 5 pieces of canvas which they had to copy, and at the end it was put together to form one giant painting. I was surprised at how therapeutic it felt to paint, having not done so since primary school (unless you count painting my room when I was 16, which was not therapeutic at all, but rather extremely frustrating and painful. Ceilings are not made to be hand-painted).

Then it was on to Sports Day. Still in our teams, we engaged in all sorts of manic races. These ranged from the mundane - sack races, egg & spoon relays and team skiing on wooden planks - to the unusually difficult, including gladiator-style podium combat, life-size fussball and scaling inflatable walls to slide down the other side. We were told to wear trainers for this, but we weren't told it was going to take place in an equestrian hall, which was covered in crumbly mud mixed with obvious horse shit. Almost everyone was in jeans, many were in fancy tops, and alot of the girls were in Ugg boots. I was lucky that mine were very old and very black, and came out looking none the worse for wear. Some other distraught ladies were muttering about compensation for ruined boots, though. They're GENUINE Uggs darling!

After Sports Day, we retreated to the hotel, filthy, smelly and completely elated. It was a brilliant idea for team building, even though several people saw more exercise in two hours than they'd seen in the previous 12 months!

After a shower, it was time to get ready for the dinner party - emphasis on party. Everyone dressed up in their Back to School outfits, and some people went all out. We had an eclectic mix of sports teams, librarians, slutty school girls and teachers, the kids from Fame, Old Skool ravers, the Pink Ladies and even a group of girls who had squeezed into genuine age 13 school dresses. It was fab, the photos are certainly something to behold!

The evening kicked off with pre-dinner drinks and photos in the cocktail lounge, and degenerated from there. By the time we were seated for dinner, Mexican Waves were making their way around the tables and the rolls meant for our soup starters were being ripped to shreds and used for target practice. Sometime during this mayhem, one of our Group Heads managed to mc an Awards Ceremony, in which people were called up to be publicly humiliated. A highlight was one of our Kiwi planners showing us how the New Zealand Haka is really done - and he definitely made his country proud. As people jumped on chairs to give standing ovations and pelted their neighbours with the sweets strewn across the table, the poor waiters attempted to serve us in silver service style. They'd all line up behind our chairs, errant guests ducking and weaving underneath their outstretched arms, and count to three before all simultaneously placing their dishes down on the tables at the same time. They were being jostled and bumped from all directions, and the strain was evident on their faces. Not so my colleagues, who took great delight in running full tilt towards them only to dodge out the way at the last moment, leaving them half paralysed and certainly speechless with shock. I heard one say to another just before main course came out: "This is going to be such a fuck up."

And they were right, it only got worse. Dagwood, dressed in a school nurse outfit complete with curly blonde wig, fishnets and stillettoes, led the main course wars when he picked up one of his bangers from his bangers and mash and propelled it through the air like a missile. That was it - way more banger ended up on the floor and in people's hair than in stomachs. If they didn't want us to behave like 3 year olds, they should not have had a Back to School theme.... although I doubt it would have made a difference.

By the time dessert was served, everyone had pretty much given up all pretence of eating. We were standing in the aisles between tables, preventing the poor waiters from coming anywhere near their destinations with the spotted dick, and dancing to the music over the loudspeakers while snapping away with our cameras. Shortly afterwards we were herded out of the ballroom by some rather stern-faced staff so they could clear up and turn the room into a disco. Out came the tables and up went the flashing lights and disco balls. Bars were set up on either side and barmen were instructed to pour only doubles.

What followed is the predictable carnage whenever drinks and dancing are mixed.... hook-ups, slip-ups, falling over and the odd puking incident. Everyone was steaming drunk and loving every moment. I went to bed sometime around 5, and the latest entry I've heard so far is one guy crawling into his room at 7:45am, just as those who kept their composure were making their way down to the pool for a morning swim.

Despite the incredibly tough journey home - travelling on four hours sleep and a hangover is my new idea of hell - it was a very memorable night and I can only hope that this is not the last we see of them with the take-over imminent.

Oh yes, and the sign of a really successful weekend? We've been banned from ever coming back.

The Hook-Up

I'm pretty much over my enormous irritation from Monday's post. Of course I'm disappointed I can't go on the trip, but also, there was a small part of me that just KNEW that I was going to be paying for that one mistake (getting my passport stolen) for a long time to come, because that's just how it is with me and travelling. I expect the absolute worst now, and then I have my day or two of ranting when it turns out that my fears are justified, but I'm over it pretty quickly. It's not really a surprise. My housemates accuse me of being unnecessarily negative in my attitude to travelling, but erm, ja.... that's very easy to say when you haven't been through what I've been through. If the travel gods were playing russian roulette with your plans, you might also be just a little cynical. And easily pissed off. And anyway, I've just proved that I'm not being negative, only realistic.

So. We're not going to Germany anymore, and now that I'm over my initial rage at the unfairness of it all, I'm able to look for the positives in the situation. For example, we're trying to pay off our debt, and when every spare penny you have should be going towards that, it's not the smartest idea in the world to take yet another trip. So I can feel good that the money we would have spent is being smartly distributed, instead of frivolously thrown about.

Also, I have a feeling that this time, if Shoes and I don't go, the others won't go either. Although several of our friends expressed interest at the time, a quick poll over the last couple of days has revealed mixed feelings about actually going ahead with the trip; some due to money issues and others to different trips they'd prefer take. In fact, as it stands, the only people definitely in are Eyes, Scarf, OJ and possibly Neutrino, who has already explained that July is the worst month of the year for him in terms of cash flow. So if he can't go, it will be down to three, and I guarantee that Eyes and Scarf won't go if it's just the two of them and a plus one. Not that I am feeling smug about this at all; I am merely satisfied that it hasn't worked out for everyone so I don't have to miss out again. I think that's a fair enough reaction. Maybe we can try again next year, and maybe in the interim Shoes and I can just get married so I don't ever have to face this issue again. This is the third time I've had to mention marriage as a solution now, so I think that is definitely grounds for seriously considering doing the deed. If I wait too much longer, how many more trips will I miss because of my stupid passport and visa issues? It makes for a very tepid London experience, because believe me, for 7 or 8 months of the year, London is the kind of place that you get desperate to leave. And not being able to induces the very uncomfortable feeling of being trapped in an overcast and depressing prison.

In other equally dramatic news, although news which does not yet affect me directly, my company has officially been bought out by another radio giant. Our CEO broke the news to us on Tuesday, and ended months of speculation and uncertainty. Well, I say that, but once the merge has been accomplished and all the technicalities adhered to, which will take about 4 months, the uncertainties will actually just increase. That is when our new owner will take over the day to day running of the newly merged company, and will start hiring and firing at will. It unsettles to me to know that my boss is already exploring alternative employment opportunities.

Last time we merged in 2005 - our company acquired another to form who we are today - the PAs were told that they would all have to interview for their jobs as there were too few slots available. Then a few went on to take the attractive redundancy package offered, and luckily the interviews never happened. I wonder if this will be the case again? How ironic - I finally take a permanent job to get the security and career opportunities I've been sorely lacking for the past two years, and now I might end up losing my job! Of course, it's a long way off, and none of us are really bothered right now. But it will interesting to see how things pan out in 4 months time.

Tomorrow morning I leave for the Commercial Conference; the annual team-building, inspiring and educational 24 hours that are supposed to give my department new direction for the future, and which usually just end up being a race to get out of hand more quickly than the person next to you. Finally, my first proper office party in London. I'm very much looking forward to it - details on Monday. :-)

No More Drama - er, when?

I am in visa hell once again.

I'm sure I don't need to summarise all my travel disasters for you again, but if you want a refresher course, all my travel-related posts are listed under Travel Traumas on the right of this page.

Anyway. This time I have just discovered I can't go on our planned trip to Germany in July. We've been planning two holidays this year - one to Spain in August, which will be our longest and most expensive trip, and then a shorter 5 day trip to Germany in July to attend the Full Moon Festival - possibly the best trance party on the planet. Most of you are by now aware of my love for trance parties, and this one is so big, so major, that last year's trip to Portugal just pales in comparison. We first started talking about going a month or so ago, and we planned to book our flights in May.

But guess what, once again I will have to pull out in yet another bad episode of deja vu, while everyone else gets ready for the party of a lifetime. Why? This is all a snowball effect of losing my passport. I came back into the UK with a full passport, but you might remember from this post that I still needed to get my UK visa re-issued once over here. As I am South African and our passports are equivalent in value to the Zim Dollar, I need a visa everytime I want to visit a different country. I have yet to apply for my UK visa re-issue, as I am travelling up to Scotland with my company this weekend and I need my passport to do so (Scotland is part of Great Britain and my UK visa allows me free access to all GB territories, so I therefore do not need to show proof of a visa when travelling to those places - I just need my passport for identification purposes).

So my plan was to come back from Scotland and straight away post off my application, and have my passport complete with UK visa back by end of June at the latest. I would then apply for my German Schengen visa 2 weeks before our trip. Today I started filling out all the application forms and checking that I have all the necessary documents. Then I saw this on the front page of the German Embassy website: You must have a passport with one blank page and residence permit for the UK, both valid for at least three months longer than the expiry date of the visa.

This is a problem, as my UK visa runs out in August this year. Which means that if I tried to apply for a Schengen visa using my UK re-issue visa as proof of my right to be here, they will deny my request based on the fact that at the time of application, I would have less then three months left on that visa.

So the logical solution is to renew my UK visa, right? After all, I am eligible to stay here - in fact, my next visa will give me indefinite leave to remain aka permanent residence, which means I will never again have to apply to stay in the UK until the day I decide to apply for citizenship, if we get that far. My current visa expires on 10 August. But the British Home Office, being the most fastidious of Immigration Authorities, has rules in place that only let you apply for a new settlement visa a maximum of 28 days before the expiration date of your current one. In other words, the earliest I can apply for my new UK visa is 14 July. We are supposed to fly on 16 July. I was planning on paying for the Same Day Service for my UK visa anyway, which costs £500 but has the advantage of being ready almost instantly. So I'd have that in place. But I would then have one day to organise a Schengen visa, and usually Schengens take between 2 and 7 days. Even if they told me it was possible to get it on the same day, unless it was a guaranteed thing - which it never is - I couldn't afford to spend all that money booking flights and whatnot, only to have my visa delayed and not be able to go.

So there you have it - for the third time in less than a year, I am facing missing out on a trip that I desperately want to make, while everyone else will probably go ahead without me anyway. I don't say that with bitterness, because hey, I'm a realist and past experience has told me that at the end of the day, people will do whatever they want to do and whatever makes them happy, and unless you're terminally ill or about to die and they are guilted into staying behind, they're going - end of story. The exception this time is Shoes. Last time with Turkey, I was big enough to let him go. I then proceeded to have a complete meltdown when he was gone, as how was I to really know how crap it was going to be to get left behind? This time I was prepared to put my foot down and start World War III over it if I had to, but it turns out I needn't have worried. He's not going without me. Ok, so I did have to ask him - he didn't offer - and there's was an infitesmal pause before he said no, and he certainly didn't sound very happy about it. But I think he realised I was stretched to breaking point last time... in fact, that I am still a bit fragile from all this drama, and my first instinct when I made this fabulous discovery today was to burst into tears. I probably would have; in fact, I VERY nearly did when I was speaking to Shoes on the phone, but I'm at work and I really don't dig crying in front of colleagues, so I managed to hold it in.

I'm just really disappointed. It's beyond ridiculous now, wouldn't you agree? Ok so it happened once, fine. And then it nearly happened again, and despite the fact that I eventually ended up going to CT, that was the most traumatic time of all. So, hey, that's enough shit for one person to deal with in 6 months, right? But no, apparently not. Third time unlucky. I'm just wandering how many more times I'm going to have one of these posts to write. How many more times am I going to be "Poor Lopz", while everyone else feels bad for a couple of days and then gets over it and goes away on an awesome holiday? What the hell is the point of living in this shit hole if I can't travel, seriously.

If I was signing an anonymous letter to a magazine column right now, I'd sign it Gutted, Gatvol and Had Just About Enough. And please pass the brandy.