Sunshine and saints alive

It’s stinky sweaty hot in London right now and its been this way for several weeks. Frankly, if it carries on any longer we might actually have to start calling it a summer. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

Only in London could pubs and flower
baskets seem such natural companions

It’s been a strange, busy, exhausting couple of weeks – the heat not helped by the cold I seem to be coming down with – or the fact that Lovely Boy and I have finally called time on London, having made the humongous decision to go back to Sydney at the end of October. I sobbed telling work, absolutely well and truly lost my shit about it. There was not a single toy left in the pram because I love the people I work with and I love my job (case in point: they were amazing and supportive and inspired and wonderful.)

Row 68 Seat H. The non-pointy end of the plane...

There's usually nothing I love more than turning up to the airport and going overboard in the newsagency - Vogue from every corner of the world, the latest issues of Hello! and The Economist (one hidden surreptitiously inside the other...) I think 'cruel irony' is the only way to describe my reading of a natty Q&A in said Vogue with a jet-setting model who explained that all she ever needs to survive a long-haul flight is a bottle of Evian, some hand cream and a cashmere throw rug.

As miracles might happen, I managed to sleep most of the way to London. All I needed was three preceding nights of no sleep, a small but nevertheless traumatic accident in my mother's car, an emotional farewell at the airport, two sleeping tablets and a vodka. Good times.

Am off to buy an umbrella. Welcome to London!!