Blue Monday

So, let's be honest.

I've gotten through almost a good week with with the Moms and it hasn't been too bad. All of that was about to change.

 If you remember, at the beginning of the conception of the precipitation of this trip, I was sending my mommie ideas that I found on Livingsocial.com, all of witch were tossed away without a single thought.

I, however, felt like I hit the MOTHER LOAD (no pun intended), when I found a voucher for a photo shoot with hair and make up for 20 pound. Translated, that's about 35 bucks, give or take, and COMPLETELY unheard of. UN -HEARD!

So, that Monday morning, I packed up a few different things to wear... okay, pretty much anything nice I had with me, which wasn't anything, and started on the trek through the London Underground to find the Islington studio.

I'd never been to Islington. In all honesty, there really isn't much to report. It was just gray. If you think London and think gray, you have Islington.

I arrived a little early for my appointment, so I spent the time in the cafe across the street. Did I mention it was cold? No? It was cold. So, I had a hot cocoa. Yes, I know that cocoa is a dark liquid and will therefore give me and my fish belly whiteness  dark circles. But hey, it can't happen that soon, can it?


A few minutes before the hour arrived, and I trudged my ass and my bag up the 5 stories of stairs. I was thanking God that momster decided she'd rather pass the morning in the hotel in complete comfort. I couldn't imagine her climbing this particular mountain.

I get into the studio, meet the photographer and the make up artist and let them know I was looking for 'Spotlight Photos', which is what headshots are called over there. "Spotlight" is the website where performing artists present themselves and their representation. Much like Actor's Access over here, if you know (or care) what that is.

The 'studio' was this guy's 5th floor walk up apartment. His rollaway bed was tucked up in the corner of the kitchen covered by a plastic sheet. The makeup station was a make shift counter -  the stove with a plank of wood and a mirror on it. 

The studio floor was a hard wood space with a computer station and some back drops hung up on scaffolding. Now, I'm not going to judge. No one knows what it's like to be a starving artist better than I, and to this guy's credit, he seemed to be doing more or less okay for himself. At least he was able to live, right? I thought it might be considered rude to take pictures of the place.

The make up artist was from Spain. I don't want to know where the brushes came from. Nor did I think it was a good idea to dwell on how old they were or the last time they were washed. Better not to ask. 

I know Spain has gone through a hard time. I get that. I now know that the Spanish refer to it is a 'tragedy'. I get that too. What I don't get is why this woman, who claims that she has worked in Mexico and on a ton of Spanish Soap Operas was using make up techniques from the '80s. And don't even get me started on the hair! Don't!

Of course, knowing that she was here trying desperately to survive by only making a few pound per hour, I didn't have the heart to scream at her artistry. No, I'm not an ugly American. And besides, maybe the pics will be good, right? RIGHT???? 

Suuuurrreeee they will.  Anyway, we went through the process of taking pics, changing tops and taking more pics. This lasted about 20 minutes. Fair enough. Then... pics revealed. 

Only one word comes to mind:

There really is no other word for it. I looked like a giant, red, moldy tomato. It was such an horrific blow to my ego. I had to stand there and tell this guy how awesome his work was whilst looking at this fat, old, red... thing. Let me tell you how bad it was: Part of the package was one photo printed. I picked the lesser of all the evils and presented it to mom. Months later I was visiting and saw the thing in a frame. I expressed my disgust at it and asked her to get it out of sight. She willingly complied saying she didn't like it either. Gag, gag, gag, gag, gag. 

Whatever! It was over. I'm fat, and old, and ugly and will never get a job. Just f'ing great. I packed up my crap, tipped the Spanish girl and the crappy photog, tucked my tail between my legs and considered flinging myself down the five flights of stairs. I settled, instead for going here:

The Shakespear Pub. I ran across this place looking for the tube. I had decided to walk a different route on the way back to the hotel. I was so numb from the humiliating experience, I wasn't thinking straight. Or maybe that was the cold. Did I mention it was cold? It was. I didn't care. 

It had to have been about 11am, and the pub just opened. I didn't know if it was providence, coincidence, or just the spirit of the Bard being a dick and laughing at me. Whatever it was, I went in. I bellied my belly up to the bar and ordered an Irish Coffee. It's hot. It's alcohol, it's sweet, I'm depressed, leave me alone. 

Look at the smirk on that rat bastard!

I sat there a few minutes and drank my drink trying not to relive the horrors of the previous hour. After a while, I got up, used the loo, asked directions and clumped my gargantuan body to the nearest tube.

On the way to the tube, I took this picture. I don't know or care what it was, but It amused me at the time. Anyway, the tube let me out at Goodge Station. I know Goodge. It's right by RADA. That's good, I had to find out what was up with my class anyway. I had booked the next level of my classes and was curious as to how to go about taking my certification exams. I decided to stop in and ask. After about an hour of the run around, and making seven phone calls (WHY I had to make phone calls as opposed to WALKING to an office, I don't know), I was told the class was cancelled. Cancelled. Huh. Cancelled. Thanks for letting me know. What a waste! No, they didn't keep my money if you were wondering, but that's not the point. The class was CANCELLED. Shit.

I thought this post was going to be small. Guess not. I'll stop here for now and let you digest this. Plus Blogger is being a jerk and messing with my pristine format.There's more to come.

Sunday F##$@!ing Sunday

Ahhh, Sunday. A day of relaxing and quite contemplation. Or not.

Following the Stonehenge/Salisbury debacle, there was no way IN HELL we were going to miss our second scheduled tour. 

After all, we did spend hours with the people to get our money back from the first one. 

Here was the game plan: 

Get up.
Make sure EdieBaby is ready.
Hobble over to the Meeting point.
Enjoy tour.

Getting up wasn't a problem. Sleeping, that was the problem because it didn't actually happen.  We dragged our bodies out of bed on a very chilly morning. Having a stroke of genius, mom called down to the concierge to order a taxi for 5:30. Our pick up was confirmed for 6:00 am. We get dressed and go downstairs to wait. 

The taxi pulls up more or less on time and we crawl in and take the 6 block ride to the front entrance to the British Museum.

We get there really early. Which is fine, we were prepared. We had a pack of cookies, two bottles of Diet Coke and a bottle of water. I was bundled into my coat three layers of clothes. All was right with the world.

As we wait, a family joins us. Turns out that the family is from New York, but the lady is from New Orleans. Man, you can't get away from Y'ats. Half way around the world and we run into a 'Wanka'. That's a 'West Banker' for those not learned in the language of the Y'at. Whatever the case, they were very nice and we chatted amiably until the shuttle arrived a few minutes later.

The shuttle pulls up and the guy gets out and opens the door for us. Ah... I knew this going too easily. Momster, being all of 3 feet tall was too short to climb into the shuttle. The guy had to root out a square bottle of water, (which I'm assuming is to cool down the radiator) and put it under the door as a step.  Whatever works, right? After that, we all climb on. The shuttle has to make two stops to pick up other passengers and then we were on our way.

I'd love to say that we had a wonderful ride through the country

side as we made our way to Stratford Upon Avon. I'd love to say that. The truth is, I really don't know. As soon as the van started moving, I fell asleep. I know the tour guide was saying something, but I have no idea what it was.

Some time after the sun came up, we arrived at the birth place of the Bard himself. If you're not sure what Stratford Upon Avon looks like, watch Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows parts 1 and 2. Harry Potter's original home, Godrick's Hollow was based on it. They shot some scenes in the church yard as well.
 

Harry Potter's house

 

 

 Now, I'm no Shakespearean scholar. And I won't even try to get into an argument with someone over whom wrote all of the plays (Marlowe, Shakey, Duke of Oxford), quite honestly, in real life it doesn't matter. What does matter is that there was a Shakespeare and I went to his house. But first, we visited the Shakespeare trust and checked out a whole bunch of hand written documents. 

His handwriting is a lot better than mine, although I can't read his either.
I don't remember what these documents are, but I did buy a book.

 

From the trust, we were allowed a few minutes to scramble around the small area of Stratford.  I found this: The Creaky Cauldron. Now, I'm not a big Harry Potter fan girl, but I did read all of the books, and due to the nature of my work, worked on ALL of the movies. So, I felt a kinship. I also thought it was cute.

I also got one of these: Butter Beer. Oh yes I did! It was good too. I don't know what was in it, but I felt the fat immediately adhere to my ass. It was delicious.

We piled back on the bus for the short trip to Shakey's birth place.

This was made into a weird tourist attraction. Not that I'm complaining. I thought it was amusing. There were tour guides dressed in period garb leading you through the tour. Upstairs, down stairs, playing with the gloves and other leather goods Ole Bill was said to have made and sold. It was a sweet little experience. My favorite, I have to say, was at the end of the tour, a little Troubadour guy was singing songs of the era. He encouraged us to sing along with a 'Clink! Clink!' chorus. Insert Chinese tourists and hilarity ensues. I'm pasty white, so I'm not allowed to comment, but please, allow your imagination to run wild. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shakey's House

Our next stop was a cute little Cotswold town called Stow-on-the-Wold. I have no idea what that means, but it was adorable.

If you've ever read an Agatha Raisin novel by M.C.Beaton, she speaks a lot of the Cotswold towns. This is one of them. If I were to go back, I'd probably want to stay in their little pub houses as an experience. Just to people watch for a couple of days.

After we visited the church, the Moms and I had lunch at a place called Talbot. I didn't take any pictures of it, but mom had this really interesting cauliflower and cheese dish. I don't remember what I had. Of course Diet Coke was on the menu.

After another rest room break, it was back on the tour bus to make our way to Oxford.

Ah, Oxford home of a semi- famous university and a bunch of buildings with pointy things.

Once again, if you've ever seen a Harry Potter film ever, you've seen Oxford University. Hogwarts is, in reality, Oxford. It's where they shot all of the exteriors, all of the Great Hall shots and based the entire school upon the layout. Make no mistake about it, Oxford is proud to be Hogwarts. If you go to any of the Oxford U stores, not only do they have Oxford Rowing jerseys, they also sell t-shirts, jackets and jerseys for all the houses of Hog's. It's weird.

It's a stunningly beautiful school. Probably had I seen it before embarking on my Uni career, I would have wanted to go there. How different my life would have been!

Anyway, there was a walking tour available for Oxford. One that promised to show beautiful architecture and historical sights. Moms had enough hobbling around for one day, so we hit up the stores instead.

We found a candy store. Mom was low on her supply of sour gummy things, so she filled up there. We tottered around for a few minutes, then copped a squat on a bench to wait for the shuttle.

 

 Back up the plastic bottle and into the shuttle we went. A short nap later and we were deposited back at the British Museum. To me it felt like 2:00 am, but was really more like 6:00 pm. The sun goes down really early there. It's hard to adjust. Weirdly, mom wanted to hit up the Indian place again. Whaaaa?????

I know! Miracles never cease.

We had this:

After which, we made our way back to the hotel room. I bathed and crawled into bed. 

Thus endith Sunday!