Computer says no

OK so things are looking up friends. Over the last two days I think I have spent 12 hours job searching and thank the sweet lord above, my efforts have not been fruitless. Yesterday two recruiters called me about a job (it was the same job; I applied to both recruiters thinking one might have lower standards than the other. Thankfully, they both have low standards!) Anyway, so that's a possibility. My name has also been put forth for another job at MSN (hopefully I don't get interviewed by the same ice queen) and there's another opportunity at Metro's website. So things are looking up. I've also applied to a million jobs at the BBC but I don't they hire you unless you can prove you aren't really a human, rather an angel sent from God above to grace the world with your holy editorial righteousness.

I think I got scratched off the angel list a looong time ago so that probably won't work out.

Other than that, I have been pretty boring over the last two days. Hit up the pub yesterday, read a great new book (hey book clubbers, I got the new Stieg Larsson book, the follow-up to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and it's incredible. I recommend reading it!)

One of the most frustrating thing I've had to deal with since I got to London has been setting up my bank account -- and yesterday I hit my breaking point at HSBC.

So here is the deal with the UK: they assume that everyone is a terrorist and attempting to take part in some shady financial dealings while they are living here. That being said, you can't even get a basic savings account without getting a background check and full-body frisking!

So last week I walk into NatWest where Martin has been banking for 35 years (and the bank where his dad was a branch manager). Anyway, this piss pot who served us was severally mentally and socially handicapped and told us that without proof of address, she couldn't open an account. She asked if I had a phone or utility bill with my name on it. I informed her that since I moved here three days ago, I hadn't managed to find a home, put the utilities in my name and magically receive the bill yet. I did however have a UK passport and FULL BRITISH CITIZENSHIP, a letter of reference from my bank, £1,000 to deposit and no traceable links to Al Qaeda.

She did not appreciate my sarcasm.

Also, in order to get a flat and provide proof of address, I would need a bank account. The whole operation makes no sense and is clearly intended to drive new citizens bat shit crazy.

So we got up to go and Martin told them he would be leaving NatWest and doing doing his banking with another establishment. She said, and I quote, 'that's fine'. Wow. Customer service at it's finest. The Brits aren't really known for being exceptionally affable people but these bank reps were downright snotty.

Then we walk into HSBC and explain my situation to them and they pretty much say the same thing. I leave feeling relatively downtrodden as it could take a month for me to get my own place and though I was put on Martin's utility bill, they only get sent out quarterly so it would take a couple of months to arrive.

Then I found out about the HSBC Passport account (with no help from HSBC). All it said I needed was a UK passport and a valid license from my home country. So I go with the required documents, sit with this woman, talk to her for about an hour and she says everything looks good she has to run it through the system but it should be fine.

She comes back 10 minutes later and says I've been denied. She doesn't know why (fantastic system you have you there) but it might be because I have no income at the present time.

Yah because I don't have a job. Because I moved here a week ago and in order to get a job, I'll need a bank account. And it also says nowhere in the pamphlet I need to have a job. I asked her if there was anything she could do and she just stared at her computer and said 'no'.

I'm not even joking, it was just like this:



Anyway so I left and called the man that solves everything, John Green. He talked to his bank, Barclays, and said they were willing to help me so I am going in tomorrow to sort it out. Honestly though, if you move here, be prepared for lots of people to be entirely unhelpful. I don't want to bad mouth this country (or city) but it was really quite ridiculous.

Anyway really exciting last minute news - we have a FLAT! Franca just called me to say she found a gorgeous place in Angel! I am going to see it tomorrow but we have put our deposit down and it's all happening. I will update with pics and thoughts tomorrow. Anyway I should get back to the job hunt!

Love and miss you all (still),

Patsy

Where in the world is...

So I'm in a pretty crappy mood right now. I just found out I didn't get the Amazon job either, which means I didn't get a second interview with any of the companies I interviewed with last week. To be honest, none of those jobs screamed out at me (that's reserved for the homeless guys that ride the Picadilly Line), but jobs are a lot like boys. You might not like them, but god fucking forbid if they turn around and say they don't want you.

It's just not done, OK? It is NOT done.

Anyway so before I got this terrible news from Beatrice, my recruiter, I actually had a great couple of days.

Yesterday, Franca and I met in Battersea to check out some flats. Let's just say, we weren't impressed. The mousy looking dude who replaced our first agent was bumbling and awkward and didn't laugh at any of my jokes so I immediately despised him. Anyway the first place we went to see was gross - cats everywhere, the place smelt like rank dudes and that was because, in fact, those rank smelling dudes were still in the house. They went up to the loft while we checked out the main floor which looked like a mix of a shitty apartment you'd have in university and a crack den. We went to see the loft and lo and behold, stanky boys were getting high! The whole place smelled like pot. I mentioned that I enjoyed the aroma and they laughed and then we left, never to return. I thought about hitting that joint but I figured I should be a in clear state of mind when picking out a place to live.

'Oh this refrigerator box is GORGEOUS. I love what they've done with the flaps and tape. The location is fabulous! Does it come with a garden?'

The second place was even grosser and I'm pretty sure several prostitutes were murdered in the shower. Which, you know, is usually a selling point. Anyway, it was a flat above a store which I've always thought was cool but I know the novelty would wear off when the smell of red snapper wafts up from the fish monger below and I'm suffering a wrathful hangover. So that was a no go.

The last place was nice but not available until the end of March and we just couldn't wait that long. We also decided we didn't like Clapham/Battersea and now we have settled on getting a flat in Angel or Old Street or somewhere north east of the river. Sorry souf London, much like my job at Amazon, it just wasn't meant to be.

In other moving news, I'm out of Pirton. I am going to stay with some other friends of my dad as it's too expensive and time consuming for me to travel back and forth from Martin's to London (about £40 or $80 for a round trip to London, and I ain't made of money). He and I will stay in touch though, so I'll keep you abreast of any new Martin-isms.

After house hunting, Franca and I ended up getting wasted all day (oops!) and going from bar to bar checking out Angel. We realized we liked Angel, and Fosters and deep fried chicken sandwiches (side note: I am going to balloon if I keep up this lifestyle. I need a gym and salad in a bad way).

After hitting up The Eagle and checking out the local talent (lots of young, drunken boys in Angel) we met up with my friend/former coworker/partying buddy Folu and went to a two-for-one drinks bar (see, this is not good). It was great to see him and catch up and he has this beautiful British accent that just makes him sound so refined and classy and, well, British. Anyway we left him and headed back to Franca's godfather's place for dinner and a sorely needed rest.

Today Franca and I got up and had a full English breakfast and I actually thought I might explode. Sausages, bacon, beans, mushrooms, toast, eggs, tomatoes, intestinal cramping, violent indigestion, etc. Anyway, it had to be done and I can tell this will be my best hangover buddy while I'm here. After that I met up with my friend and former Yahoo! coworker DAN MILANO!

For everyone at Yahoo!, here's what I promised you:



Dijon Dan Milano! I found him in London. We had a great day. Hitting up pubs, walking down Oxford Street, catching up on our lives. We went to Selfidges (which for the record makes Holt Refrew look like Bi-Way), went to another pub and had chips and drinks. I am glad to have a Canadian friend in the city, so we've made plans to see a footie game, hit up some markets and grab dim sum.

I'm glad I'm seeing old faces and I'm beginning to feel like London could soon become a city I call home.

So, in short, no one will employ me but I like to drink? No wait, I like to eat? Dammit. I'll have to work on that.

Alright well if any of you are suffering the winter blues right now (or unemployment blues) here is a song/video that will definitely brighten up your day. I listened to it when I got home and immediately felt better.


I miss and love you all and will write more tomorrow!

Cheers,

Patsy

The pink knickers girl

So I had a very relaxing weekend. Lots of sleeping and reading (Still Alice, great book, super sad). Saturday I went to the adult pantomime which was actually pretty funny. It's one of those crowd involvement spectacles where you yell out things like 'He's behind you!' and 'I realize why this only cost £15!'. It's full of bawdy humour and scantily clad women. Martin obviously loves it because he's been like 10 times and all he ever says about it is 'I like the snow queen. She's cute.' She's the character that wears a bikini for most of the show.

Pervert.

Anyway, so that was fun. Then we went out for dinner to this Italian place which was nice. Sunday I slept until noon (I'm milking this jet lag thing for all it's worth) and then went to dinner with the neighbours and their adorable daughter which was fun. Then I went to the pub and got shitfaced with a bunch of old men. One of them said he could get me tickets to Glastonbury which is amazing. I've heard it's absolutely crazy and full of tons of great bands and illicit substances, so I'm pretty pumped!

Anyway, I was debating whether or not to put this story on here, but I think I have to. It's super embarrassing for me, but if I am going to be candid and open in this blog, I have to let it all out.

Here goes. Oh boy.

So yesterday, Martin had asked me to bring down my dirty clothes (after he told me to make my bed and clean the bathroom). Anyway I took a big pile of them downstairs and he said, 'Oh, just leave them by the washer.'

I wasn't really thinking about it so I put them down and went about my day. A couple of hours later I come downstairs and see all my clothing - including my underwear and thongs - set up on this drying rack right at the front of his house. This means he had to actually take out my unmentionables from the washing machine and put them on there one by one! Ugh. Anyway I was fairly mortified but just decided silently to myself that I would obviously be doing my own laundry from now on.

I didn't really think about it again until we were at the pub last night. It was me and four older men, mostly in their 30s and 40s. We'd had several pints and were chatting about how I was getting along living at Martins. I said it was fine and he'd been very gracious. Then one of his friends, Richard, pipes up and says, "Well, Sue drove by Martin's house the other day and says, 'Does Martin have a lady friend staying with him? There are pink knickers hanging in his front room!" Those were MY pink knickers that everyone in the fucking town now knows about. I had no idea how nosy people in small British villages are but I guess I had to learn the hard way.

Anyway they had a good laugh about that while I turned bright red. Then someone else pipes up "Yah, well at least those thongs don't have much material!" Then they laughed again and I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. I couldn't believe four grown men were sitting around talking about my under things right in front of me!

Anyway it's my own stupid fault for not doing my own laundry but I really could not be more mortified. Afterward, Martin's neighbour told me not to worry about it but I mean, shit, I just moved here and already I'm the 'pink knickers' girl. Fuck. I have to get out of here fast. Just one more reason to keep job/hunting and find a flat!

Alright well I think I have embarrassed myself enough for one day. I'm off to see Nowhere Boy this afternoon which is about John Lennon and should be fantastic. I'll write my review tomorrow!

Cheers,

Patsy

It's a rainy day in Pizzaville

For some reason I cannot get that godforsaken jingle out of my head every morning when I wake up and it's dreary and overcast.

So much to tell you all. Where to begin.

Thursday I woke up early and met Franca in Clapham, which is the area we were thinking of living in. It's a gentrified area that's supposed to be so hip it hurts, filled with ex-pats, tons of pubs and restaurants, a general awesomeness that hipsters in Toronto would drool over. However, like so many things in life that promise to be beyond radical, it was anything but. We didn't spend too much time there but we did find what we looking at a little north in an area called Battersea on a street called Lavendar Hill (right next to Strawberry Fields. Just kidding, but that would be pretty awesome).

Anyway Lavendar Hill was all those things previously mentioned and more. Then we went to a some real estate agencies in London and I realized this is where the snake oil salesman dwell.

So this is what you need in London to get a flat:

- A job (or proof that you won't try and pay your landlord in stickers)

- First six weeks of your rent for deposit (we're looking at £1800)

- One month's rent up front (£1,200)

- If you're going through a schiesty estate agent, £300 so they can afford their fey pink shirt and painfully reflective patent leather boots

So yeah, fuck that noise. I'm not paying some douchebag a week's rent so he can drive me around in his box car and tell me how awesome 'Souf' London is. We're gonna get this guy to show us what's up and then drop him like a bad habit.

After almost getting swindled by some greasy salesman at Foxtons (god, even the name sounds pompous), I went to Franca's godfather/cousin's place (her family tree is hilarious, she explained it to me this morning and my brain almost exploded). They were absolutely wonderful. They have a gorgeous Irish terrier named Oscar who I fell in love with, not to mention a super baller house in Chiswick (that's British speak for Yorkville). Great garden, beautiful kitchen, delicious dinner, free flowing wine (ohmigod they let me smoke. Can I keep you?) and great conversation! I was so happy not to have to take a train all the way back to hell's kitchen (my own Cockney rhyming slang for Hitchin, where Martin lives). It was beautiful and fantastic and I am very jealous of Franca but glad to have stayed there made some new friends (they said I was lovely. Sigh).

Friday we got up super early as Franca had a job interview in Soho. Soho is where all the media professionals work and it's painfully cool. I really hope if I get a job, it's there. Then we walked around Oxford Street where there is SO much good shopping, had lunch, grabbed a pint of course and Francs headed off to Reading for the weekend and I headed back into Soho for my interview with MSN.

So although this office is in Soho, the office I would be working in is in Victoria which is not so far away but probably not as cool. The interview went alright but the woman was sort of distant and hard to read and not nearly as affable as the dude from Amazon. I actually brought up my interview at Amazon and lo and behold, she had worked there for two years. She said it was a rigid work environment that was very challenging but it would be great for my resume. The interview was about half an hour long and then she said to me, 'feel free to pick my brain about Amazon if this doesn't work out.' Which I thought was a weird thing to say considering SHE is the one who decides whether this works out. Anyway, whatever, fingers crossed and all that stuff.

Anyway I guess that's enough for today. I took some pictures on Oxford Street (while chain smoking) when Franca was at her interview so I will try and put them up soon.

To end this post, I have a new Martin-ism.

Last night, we watched some indie German movie (is there a more thrilling genre?) which obviously I had never seen, and 3/4 of the way through, he says, 'you know how it ends? They all commit suicide at the same time.' I laughed because I thought he was joking. Then half an hour later, they all do commit suicide together. What kind of person DOES that? I mean, it's one thing to accidentally give away the ending if you're telling someone about a movie you just saw, but to do it DURING THE MOVIE. This is what happens when you live alone your whole life. I swear to god, if I am single when I'm 40, I'm marrying the first thing I see that's breathing.

Alright friends, I'm off to an adult pantomime tonight. I have no idea what that is but I'm sure it will be an experience worth blogging about. I miss you all.

Cheers,

Patsy

You win some, you lose some

Well, today was an interesting day.

I got up at 5 am (apparently it does exist) for my Amazon interview. It was a hellish morning for several reasons, mostly because I felt sick (my body lashed out at me for getting it out of bed at such an ungodly hour) and because it is really fucking cold in this country.

I know, I know. 'But you're from Canada!' Honestly, British cold is like nothing I have ever experienced. It's this damp, bone chilling, to-your-core coldness that makes you want to crawl out of your skin and get into a hot bath. I'm cold on the inside all day long. This isn't some 'put on your long underwear, and layer your sweaters' weather. This is the kind of shit that will have me running off a plane screaming in ecstasy the next time I see sunlight. Preferably in Spain. Preferably for the rest of my life.

Aww, just kidding, London. I would never do that. *checks cheapest flights to Madrid*

Anyway, enough bitching about the weather. How stereotypically British of me.

The other reason this morning sucked was because I had to make a pilgrimage to Slough for this interview, which is the equivalent of something like Hwy. 10 and Dundas in Mississauga: sketchy as hell and far away from all the action. Anyway, after a train ride, a tube ride, another train ride and a cab ride, I arrived at the office. I had to do an hour and a half long writing test which I think went alright, though it was really weird, especially because I already wrote a copywriting test for them. Whatever. They're clearly anal about who they hire, which if I get the job, will mean I'll be working with capable people which is a good sign.

Then a dude from HR came in and we chatted and he said I seemed like a perfect fit. The pay is sweet, I get vacation and benefits and what not. The one thing that sucks is I can tell the writing will be very dry - lots of product descriptions which I've done before and don't hate, but I don't love either.

Anyway I was happy with how things went, but I got home today to an email saying they have filled the Brightsolid position with a candidate whose skills matched the job more closely, though they want to know if I am interested in the senior position (which seems nonsensical to me. Sorry, you aren't qualified for this junior position, but how would you like a job with more pay, responsibility and seniority? Whatever, I said I was so we'll see what happens there.

So there's good news and bad-ish news today. I don't want to get too excited about Amazon and jinx anything and I still have an interview with MSN Friday, so we'll see how that goes.

After my interview I met Martin and we went to go to see a play called Rope which was really great - all the dudes had Jude Law accents and they drank and smoked on stage which made me want to jump across all the geriatrics at the Wednesday matinee and light up one of their sweet smelling ciggies, but I refrained. I am home now, cold, exhausted and hungry.

I'll leave you with a funny Martin-ism of the day. This morning at 5 am, amongst the many instructions he gave me before I left for my interview, I got: 'Try not to get mugged when you're out there, mkay?' For some reason I found that really funny. It's like asking someone not to get raped. Or murdered. Yes, Martin, I'll tell those muggers I was strictly instructed NOT to be mugged today. Maybe some other time.

Alright friends, will write tomorrow when I'm warmed up and rested.

Cheers,

Patsy

Dead man's bones

Yesterday I finally got to venture out to Londontown for my job interview and a jaunt around the city and it was wonderful. And bone chillingly cold and damp, which I cannot complain about because this is what I signed up for.

The job interview went really well and I hope I'll be getting another interview next week. The company is called Brightsolid and they do ancestry research. It won't be quite as exciting as writing commentary for Fashion Police but it will pay the bills and support my drinking habit. Plus, get ready for it, the job is full time! Vacation (five weeks)! Health care! Respect! What are these things? I have no idea.

Actually, I explained my history of interning/contracting/slave labouring to my two interviewers and they seemed appalled.

I like them already.

So we'll see what happens there. I have an interview with Amazon tomorrow and with MSN Friday. I was told by my interviewers at Brightsolid that both these places suck to work at (though clearly, they weren't very impartial). So we'll see how that goes.

After the interview I had a stressful time getting my traveler's cheques cashed but managed to sort that out and follow it up with a pub lunch. My stomach cannot handle this British food. It's like giving someone from a trailer park $10 million and telling them to buy whatever they want. They return with a diamond encrusted grill and solid gold flask. My stomach, much like white trash, just can't handle the richness.

Anyway, after that we hit up the Tate Modern. Martin told me it's important that he goes there every once in a while so he can remember why he hates this kind of art so much. I laugh and ask him what kind of art he likes. He says he likes the art in his house. What a shocker. To be fair, a lot of the stuff in there is so beyond me. A pile of second-hand clothes? Shit, I should quit writing. I have works of art like that lying all over my room.

After the Tate, we walk alongside the Thames on what in the summer is a bustling boardwalk but in January is relatively dead. We walk for about an hour. We see Big Ben, the Parliament Buildings, 10 Downing Street, Trafalgar Square, Covent Gardens (great, fantastic cheap cheap shopping. I refrained from purchasing anything until I have a job. Though I do want to buy every single item of clothing in Ben Sherman).

Then I finally met up with Franca which was wonderful. She filled me in on the housing situation (she's been talking to some agents, found some great places on gumtree.com [the British equivalent of craigslist] though she thinks one of them sounds too good to be true and might be a scam). We talked about our trip over, our family, how excited we are, job prospects and how weird it is that we are both sitting in a pub in Covent Garden when a week ago we were at karaoke bar on Queen Street.

After that we met up with two of my sister's friends from university that have been living in London for three years. We went to this great Vietnamese place on Oxford Street (after drunkenly getting lost about 10 times, we finally found it). They filled us in on where to live (and where not to live) and generally what life in London is like. I realized I hate being new to a place and I can't wait until I am schooling newcomers on the ways of this city. I've also realized based on its size and sheer awesomeness, this will take me quite some time.

Miraculously, dinner, a large bowl of steaming hot pho, with a bottle of wine and an appetizer was only £10 each! And you don't tip!

I love this country already.

Today I am taking it easy because tomorrow I have to be up at 5 am to make to make it to my Amazon interview. I'll post tomorrow and let you know how it goes.

Thanks for all your words of encouragement by the way, you're all too sweet.

Cheers,

Patsy

P.S. More Facebook pics from London here.

Cry me a river

“A little voice inside my head said, "Don't look back. You can never look back." – Don Henley

Well friends and family, I crossed the pond safely, but there were certainly some bumps in the road. First was the flight delay. Originally I was supposed to leave at 5:30 PM. Then for some unknown reason (mechanical something or other) the flight was changed to 9:30 PM.

Airlines are a lot like weathermen: they don’t necessarily have to be right, ever, but as long as they pretend they know what the plan is, it’s all good. Don't worry about being accurate, a prediction about the year the plane will take off will do just fine.

But worse than the delay were the massive amounts of tears I shed yesterday upon my departure. My tear ducts did not know what was going on. Like the rest of my body, they do not like to be over exerted in any way, shape or form. And they certainly weren’t pleased when I made them work overtime yesterday. My eyes hurt now so I assume they've up and gone on strike.

I cried when Meredith left, then when Jess left, then I had nervous breakdown at the airport as I said goodbye to my dad, my smom (= step mom) and my brother. As I was waiting to go through security, tears running down my face, a strange Polish man began rubbing my back telling me it was OK, he understood how hard it was to leave your family.

I was mildly creeped out, but I won’t say it wasn’t nice.

I cry all the way to my gate as strangers gawk at me. I finally sit down and wait. And wait. The flight was already delayed for four hours and then another hour. Then we finally get to board. A friendly, good looking British guy named Blake begins talking to me and I am already imagining out future together: a night in a darkly lit West end pub, we’ve both had a few too many Boddingtons, he whispers something mischievous into my ear…

Then he tells me he’s moving to Canada. I feel like someone just popped my fantasy dream bubble.

Well, forget you.

After that botched plan, I hope to sit next to some fantastically handsome and interesting man (and there were a boat load) on the plane (like that army dude Franca got drunk with on her flight over. Lucky girl.) Unfortunately my seatmate is a chubby freckled Scot who has clearly purchased every travel accoutrement from duty free: the neck pillow, the sleeping mask, the body blanket, etc., and clearly will not be speaking to me for the duration of the flight. She’d passed out within two seconds of me taking my window seat. Which I later realize is certainly for the best.

Before we take off, some old woman needs to be escorted off the plane and have her luggage removed. I don’t mean to sound callous but old people really do ruin everything. They should have a geriatric airline that just circles the runway and then says ‘Welcome back!’ Conning their elderly passengers into thinking they’ve just vacationed in West Palm Beach for two weeks. Seriously, they’d totally buy it.

Anyway before I left home, my brother gave me a present and a thick ass envelope that unfortunately, was not filled with wads of British cash. It was in fact, filled with a four-page hand written letter, which I was instructed only to read when I was up in the air.

Bad, bad, terrible idea.

I didn’t get through the first line of this thing before I started BAWLING like a baby. My seatmate, comatose in her leopard print neck pillow, did not seem to notice. But the seatmate to her right certainly did and offered me tissues, probably after watching me wipe my nose on my sweater for the thousandth time while trying not to make too many awful crying noises.

After that little breakdown, and feeling completely wiped out, I downed two chlorazepam and chased them with three shitty bottles of Australian Chardonnay. I was out like a light until I landed in Gatwick.

Five hours later, after a nap and a delicious meal, I am writing this blog, sitting in a quaint little house in a small village called Pirton about an hour outside London. I’ll be hitting up the local pub tonight with my godfather.

Anyway friends, I am exhausted and in need of a good British pint. I shall write tomorrow with more stories (and pictures, thanks to my sweet new camera ;) Thanks J & P)

Keep checking in! I still miss you all,

Love forever,

Patsy xo

London calling

'Wherever you go, there you are' - Yogi Berra

Well, holy shit. Today is finally here. After six months of planning and waiting, I leave Toronto for the glamorous and gritty streets of London, England on a one-way ticket with a stomach full of nerves. Today has already been way too emotional: I said good-bye to my step-sister this morning and those tears just wouldn't stop flowing. Needless to say, the airport is going to be a disaster.

I fucking hate good-byes.

But if it's not hard, it's not worth doing, right? I am waiting for the moment when I completely break down and back out of this situation like a shit-scared horse. I know, however, that won't happen for several reasons:

1) My roommate is already there. She'd be none too pleased if I just up and ditched her.
2) By the power of Zeus, I already have three interviews lined up!
3) This ticket is non-refundable, yo.
4) I've never actually wanted to do something more in my life. That includes the first time I funneled a beer.

But probably the most important reason I can't back out is an angelic woman named Marilyn. My mother did this same trip at my age. She worked as a journalist in London where she met and married my father before moving back to Canada.

Call it fate or whatever you want, but unwittingly, I'm taking the same journey and I could not be more eager to follow in her footsteps. I know she will guide me through my days there, even the first ones that suck a lot and make me wish I'd never even heard of stupid, rainy-ass London.

And so, I dedicate this post to my late mother, Marilyn.

I have so much to say, but I can't overwhelm this first entry with all my brilliance (read: bullshit) so I'll save some more gems for my next post tomorrow, when I'm coming off my Valium high and realizing what a ridiculous decision I have made.

To everyone reading this, I thank you. I will miss you all very much and I will be thinking of you as I journey across the pond.

Cheers,

Patsy

P.S. For some reason, I can't get this song out of my head, and it seems quite apt. So enjoy!