A very boring week. Because I write about those now too. Apparently.

Because it is school holidays, the children had their annual visit with their grandparents and Bingley and I sat on the couch and wondered at the silence. For a very short period of time anyway before trying to fill it. I still had to work all week, and weekend, but we managed to do some other things too.

The first night we went and saw The Hobbit and drank slushies that gave me headspin and ate popcorn until I couldn't feel my lips. It was good and I enjoyed the Hobbit very much. I am thinking of taking the Elfling for an encore as I think she'd like it but it may be yet just a little scary. We'll see. Plus the idea of a night out with just her is appealing.

After the movie we walked around Southbank for a while and sat down at a Spanish bar to eat tapas. Fun ambience and a jug of tasty Sangria mixed with the sultry night as we people watched and the bougainvilea bower swayed listlessly in what was left of the breeze. After dinner, having eaten too much, we wandered through the park to the beach where hundreds of others were still swimming and I peeled off my shoes and pulled up my jeans and waded in tipsily, wanting nothing more than to dive right in. The only thing that stopped me was that my underwear was sheer, otherwise I would have jumped. Bingley was much more sensible than I though and promised we would come back the next night.

So Monday, after work, when I was overtired and overworked and underpaid, I got changed into my riding gear, we snapped our new $10 LED torches to our bikes and we rode all the way to the city, across the Goodwill Bridge and back down into Southbank to the pools. Unlike every other day of this new year, it was actually blowing quite a bit, with the wind racing along the river and losing all of her heat. Remembering the strong pull of desire from the previous night however I forced myself to strip off my slightly sweaty clothes down to my bikini and jump into the water that was actually blissfully warm. Lapping at shoulders as we bobbed around watching the city lights and listening to the sounds of everyone else splashing. The wind as it blew across the surface raising gooseflesh and causing me to shiver so much that it was not quite as long as expected before we were back on our bikes and riding home in the night.

Bingley and I have never ridden our bikes together in Brisbane before and it was a revelation. Wide, well maintained bike paths that snaked under and over bridges that seem so much bigger when you're whooshing past on your own steam. On arriving home my knees and shoulders hurt, but the grin of self satisfaction and spontaneity and doing something fun and active was elixir enough to fall peacefully to sleep not long after.

Wednesday night I stopped at Ikea on the way home and bought a new bookshelf. It was very big and heavy and getting it into the car I used all of my grade 10 Physics to actually lever it in without breaking something. We then had the fun of sitting on the floor and putting it together, which is probably the real reason we own so much Ikea furniture - it's just a really big lego set.

Thursday we went out for dinner at a Lebanese restaurant. It was ok.

Friday we had a big fight. I cried. We made up. I slept badly.

Saturday we woke up and the sun was shining and my room was full of light. I was snuggled up in my blankets as the airconditioning rumbled through the vents. After finally climbing out of bed and into the shower, we made our way to GoMA to the new APT exhibit.

Side note - I am lucky that I was brought up in a family that appreciated art and took the time to take children to museums and galleries and to explain it as well. Some art doesn't need explaining. Some art is just pretty and nice to look at, but art that speaks to you other than just being pretty - learning to appreciate that is a true gift.

Anyway, the Asia/Pacific triennial art exhibit at the Queensland Art Gallery is one of my favourite things to experience. The last exhibit in 2010 was spectacular and there were pieces there that made my heart hurt. Some that made my eyes sting and some that pulled my stomach out of my chest .I loved it. Loved experiencing it. Loved visiting it on my own. Loved taking others with me to experience it. The stag of globes still rates as one of the most amazing things I have ever seen. So of course my expectations were high, and I take disappointment badly.

I was not disappointed.

From the first moment of walking in, I knew I would not be disappointed. Some things of course I just glanced over politely, missing, or not caring about their meaning. Others had me spellbound, sitting and watching, sometimes nose right up to the glass or the paint or the wood, just to see every last tiny detail. To try and work out how as well as what and why.

Here are some of my favourites, and reasons why you should go too.

I liked these. I empathise.

This is techinically spectacular and utterly unnerving. So incredibly beautiful and so ugly at the same time. My phone has done nothing to capture the beauty of the colours or the technique. 

String theory. I followed each line to its completion. I loved the wobbles. String theory needs wobbles.

The yellow room 

Black and white. Texture and light. I was wearing a red dress and the reflected light from me gave the painting colour. I was profoundly moved by it.

Terrible picture of a stunning series by Michael Cook. Amazing.

This is a photograph taken of the sky in a mirror. The mirror is made from polished meteorite. When I realised what I was looking at my heart jumped a little. So spectacularly beautiful and so simple - seeing the sky from the sky. 

Large installation piece of cities that raise to they sky. Worth looking at close up to see all the little details. 

I usually am not much interested in the short cinema offerings at these exhibitions and wander out after a polite few minutes of trying to look interested. This one was not like that. 9 minutes that sucked the breath from my chest. I know it won't affect everyone like that, but it's worth sitting down for just to appreciate the cinematography. 

Whimsical Japanese print. Ethereal.

Farsi. I love that the room bent the more I looked at it to become a 3 dimensional thing. 

I am not sure why this moved me so much. It's massive and it is beautiful. Part of a larger series by an Indigenous artist. One of the bags reminded me of the Giants in the BFG. They seemed perfect for snatching up little children. 

One of those spectacularly beautiful wow creations that you don't need to be a critic to enjoy. I wanted to visit there in the clouds this temple. Live there. Home of the air nomads. 

Parade of the tiny glass animals. Intricate, refractory and flowing like water. 

Menacing shapes in the art gallery over the water. I loved the reflections and the menace and the beauty all mixed in together.

My hair is longer.

Wrap up posts are always a bit tedious. Both to write and to read. But we write the equivalent of the mass mail out Christmas letter because we feel the need for a punctuation mark in this little written universe of ours. So here goes...

There were and are plenty of things I could write about, but the first thing that came to my very very tired mind tonight as I bullied myself into writing the sort of post I usually glaze over, was that my hair is longer than it was this time last year. Quite a bit actually. Sometimes, in the tedium of growing my hair and trying to keep it looking healthy, it has felt as if it's not growing at all. That I'm spending all this time pursuing something that's just not possible, and as far as poorly drawn metaphors go, that about sums up good portions of this year.

But whining is not attractive at the best of times, and even at the worst of times it's not really one of my defining characteristics, because no one ever achieved much whining, and I've always been an overachiever.

So here's a few things I actually achieved this year:

I started drawing again. I've talked about it and half heartedly tried to pretend I was making an effort, when in reality I wasn't doing much of anything. But this year I really did, and I was even brave enough to give some of it away to a friend who deserved something much more impressive, but who was properly appreciative of the effort and thus I love her to bits.

I started a training program for a Royal Australian and New Zealand medical college and got excellent reviews. I got referees to say wonderful things about me and make me cry (in the good way). And if I didn't pass my exam first go, that's ok, I can do it again.

I moved into my first house all on my own and not only survived, but enjoyed myself. I went to the beach after work and sat on the sand. I stopped and bought icecream just because I could. I stayed up to late and read crappy books to cure the insomnia. I got up too early and did yoga on my purple mat.

I came home to my beautiful family and never want to leave again. Though it would be nice to still be able to pop down to the beach after work, or to the top of the mountain. I'd still rather come home to a noisy house full of squabbles and laughter and hugs and tiny sunburned hands that grip my fingers and steal my pillow in the middle of the night. I sleep better here.

But in general , 2012 was far harder than I anticipated, and in ways I hadn't expected. It hasn't been so much about enjoying as surviving and it's not my favourite way to live. 2011 finished on such a high - home from Paris, a major life long dream fulfilled, succeeding at work, succeeding at home, loving my beautiful children and with dreams this year of saving for our first home together. And I think that has what has been hardest this year, not the long hours, though they have been longer than almost any other time I have worked, or the stress of Bingley's prolonged unemployment, or the financial difficulties, or my weight gain that has been enough that my beautiful clothes that I wore to Paris pinch and no longer drape as they're supposed to. No, what has been hardest of all is that it has seemed pointless to dream, for fear of disappointment, and with no tangible goals to work for, I have floundered.

So for 2013, my goals are these - to have goals again. To work for them, even if they are smaller than the dreams of a year ago, when circumstances were different. To feel beautiful again, and dress accordingly. To learn how to curl my hair in curls that last longer than the time it took to put them in. To pass my exam. To go on a holiday, booked and planned in advance, even if it's not as glamorous as Paris, and sit in the heat with Bingley with limp hair and drink mojitos in the sunset.

Sometimes, I forget I'm 31, and I want someone to swoop in and save me. To make me feel clever and fun and beautiful and to make it all easier for me. To not worry about money or learning or holding the steel that is pressed against a person's heart and controlling their fate. To wake up and worry only about doing my hair and  making breakfast for the family and planning dinner and listening to homework. To still feel like there is magic and joy in the world.

But it's not my job or my study that takes that away, and no Disney Prince could ever give it to me either. And there are moments of magic still, when I make someone laugh, while taking away the fear of the procedure I'm doing. Of being thanked by the big burly security guard when I've given him the joint injection that means his arms work like they're supposed to. Or the little old lady who tears up when I am the first person to explain what it is that she's doing in hospital and why I'm doing what I'm doing. Who holds my hand with frail paper skin that buckles under my blade and bruises at a whisper.

Little old ladies always comment on my hair too. My beautiful long hair. I guess that's another thing I achieved: I have my old hair back.

Sun setting on 2012

PS I want to write about Christmas
PPS I want to write more this year. And not just because Liss told me to.

Epoch

This time three years ago I was sitting in a large lecture theatre with my notes in a perspex folder as I listened. In front of me, nestled in my lap was the beginnings of my belly, that would continue to swell for the next few weeks as the Possum grew. I was no longer a student, and yet sitting there in the lecture theatre, I may as well have been, and life was not so very different to a few weeks earlier when I had been just a student.

My clothes were plain and boring. Partly because maternity wear was mostly plain and boring and partly because I couldn't afford much else. But it was also because part of me didn't care, and the part that did was too vain to accept that I couldn't wear the sorts of clothes I'd like to. I liked that I got a free pass in pregnancy anyway, as I listened to those lectures, surrounded by the excited hubbub of my fellow interns as we prepared to step out into the world for the first time and use that hard won "doctor" in front of our names.

We were naive and excited and optimistic. We had survived medical school and the world was ours for the taking. Bring on the ER scenes of jumping on someone's chest and watching them come back to life while we patted ourselves on our backs for a job well done. The fact that my first arrest that I arrived at was a shambles should have given me a heads up, but that naive idealism pervaded my first few months of medicine. And every time someone called me "doctor" a thrill went through me, as it registered that yes, I was.

I went on maternity leave, came back, and I chronicled the disaster that that was. I didn't come back with my adrenaline fuelled idealism and excited determination to make a difference. I came back desperate and isolated, dreading being at work and dreading being at home. It is no wonder that those first few months were so horrible that I have nearly blocked them from my conscience. But I survived them. Barely. And ended up in Palliative Care.

Palliative Care was to be the hardest and possibly the best rotation I did as an intern. I fought against it, it was the area of medicine I feared most, my personal experience being limited to ideas of giving up and saying goodbye. I learned it was not like that, and that the people who go into this area of medicine are the most dedicated and caring doctors I ever met. There is no money in palliation. Very little respect. So those that are there do it because they truly want to make a difference... and they do.

But by the end of 3 months of dealing with those that were sick and dying and afraid, I was a complete mess. Breaking point on so many fronts, falling apart while being the best doctor I could, leaving behind a family in tatters and so fragile that I felt as if I were made of glass. Transparent and brittle. But there was one saving grace, one tiny spark inside that illuminated through my limbs. I was a better doctor.

For the next 18 months I worked so hard that sometimes I'm not sure I slept. I learned to laugh again. I left home in darkness and often came home in darkness. I learned so much. I learned what it feels like to do chest compressions on someone when rigor has already started to set in. I learned what it's like to push a catheter into an epidural space and the unique joy that is seeing crystalline fluid drip from the end of the needle to show you're in the right spot. I also learned the fear in seeing that fluid flow bright yellow, thick as mustard.

I ordered x-rays, I attended crash calls, I took more blood than flows around my body. I prescribed medications I'd never even heard of, and looked up the formulations on MIMS guiltily, wondering how it is that people have so much faith in doctors. I became so slick with taking blood and putting in cannulas that other doctors would call me to come help. I made people laugh at 2am in the darkness as I punctured their feet and finally found a vein in the circle of light from the lamp so that they would mind less at the tourniquet and stop being so terrified.

I sat in the doctor's lounge and watched the sunrise more times than I can remember. A full lunar eclipse one night. Fireworks another. I fell asleep on the chairs, with my pager clutched in my hand, waking instantly as it vibrated and dashing off to put out more fires. I learned to do so many things that it didn't matter if I was mostly asleep, so long as I could do them effectively and not cause pain or fear.

I experienced death. I learned the smell that heralds multiorgan failure and felt the keening pain of it when it happened to someone I'd come to know. I found that there's comfort in sitting next to a bed in the twilight, when no one even really knows you're there and listening to the breath of someone whose inhalation may be their last. Tinkering with the syringe driver to make sure that everything was perfect. An event coordinator for the last moments on Earth. I learned there are good deaths and there are bad deaths, and tried to explain the difference to the desperate and afraid. I cried sometimes, but not very often. The worst days leaving me empty so that I didn't even know how to feel.

But I experienced life too. I saw patients with head injuries so bad that every morning I'd hold my breath a little, waiting to see if this was the day they'd deteriorate. I saw senseless injuries in people far too young to know what the inside of a hospital looks like and permanent disabilities while families smiled tight smiles and became excited by the opening of eyes. I saw two young people, both barely out of their teens, both have injuries that should have caused death. And they languished on the ward for weeks, barely changing, barely alive. Hearts and lungs that still work as 20 year old hearts and lungs should, but everything else at the mercy of a petulant brain.

And I watched one of those 20 year olds wave to me on the last day. Watched him start to show signs that his brain was waking up, and though he would never again be what he was, that he would be something more than what he had been, when I had washed and debrided the wound on his arm that he could not feel as it laid limply by his side. I saw one of them walk into the ward, a few weeks after she'd been discharged. Not ever again who she was, but smiling and walking alone. A girl who had lain silently in bed for weeks, only one side of her body responding to painful stimuli who had progressed just like the miracle pundits tell us.

But I saw many more who didn't.

I've done psychiatry and seen people trapped in their own minds. I've done pain and seen the same thing; those looking for a magic wand that doesn't exist - a silver bullet that will suddenly make them "normal". Seen some that engaged and accepted, went on and understood how to move past the pain and live the only life they have. Saw plenty more who couldn't. I did general surgery, abdominal surgery, orthopaedic surgery. Stood in theatre in the middle of the night while swooning a little from tiredness as I held a retractor. Gloved up and gowned, felt the sweat roll behind my visor and yawned again behind the mask.

I did months of neurosurgery and fought an inner battle with myself. One version of me somewhere is a surgeon, and operating on brains and spines, giving hope to the Harveys of the world. But as I watched the dedication and the enthusiasm of the registrars and consultants that I admired so much, I knew that I just couldn't. I wanted to so much, but the toll it was taking on the girls and Bingley was too much. I knew if I pursued it that I would lose my family. In short months I also lost nearly ten kilograms, and while I've maintained most of that, and I can't pretend that I don't like it, it played havoc with my health.

And now I find myself here on the very last day of being a resident doctor and I feel overwhelmingly sad. In the last few weeks I've felt relief that it's coming to an end, but the wards and their smell seem welcoming somehow. I know this rabbit warren of a hospital better than most. I know the secret passages and the stairs to everywhere. I've practiced on just about every ward there is in every building. I know the nurses and the fellow doctors. I know the ones who've been here forever and the ones that are only just making a name for themselves. I've made friends who will stick up for me, cover for me and tell me roundly when I'm being a twit. I've found referees that say glowing things that make my neck feel hot and my eyes prickle suspiciously.

And I sit here on my unpaid lunch break, in my tailored sleek dress with the shiny accessories and amazing shoes that I would have only dreamed of three years ago. My pager in front of me, my smart phone on my notes and I wonder at how hard it is to push forward. To accept change.

Part of me wants to just stay here, to keep doing this, at getting better and better at it, to not go down any more tunnels but to sit out here in the warm wind and the light. It has been an amazing three years. A terrible three years. I am so much older that I was three years ago. And if I stay here it's warm and it's comfortable and there's no risk at all.

But deep in my belly where the Gleam resides, there's a warm and flickering fire and that curl of anticipation that a little girl felt as she lay her forehead against the window as she sped to another destination, another new beginning. I don't exactly know where I'm going, I've just bought a ticket for the train and once I'm on it we'll speed away. And sometimes we'll travel through tunnels, and there will be no light anywhere at all. But even in the darkness we'll keep on moving forward, until I'm in the light and wind again.

I am a mother, no really

'Twas the night before Christmas Eve when all through the house, not a creature was stirring (except the husband playing Star Wars Online and the neurotic cat). The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of Pillow Pets danced in their heads.

4 hours driving today to bring my babies home and I have MISSED them. I miss them of course any time they're away, I missed them when Bingley and I had our Parisian extravaganza, but truly, this last week I have missed them most. I missed their excitement about Christmas and stealing overheard whispers about Santa. I have missed getting ready for tomorrow while they giggle and laugh and get under my feet and ask me a million questions. I have missed curling up in bed at night with a brightly coloured Christmas book and weaving more magic. I have even missed being woken to the excited babble of the latest window in the Lego Advent calendar.

I have missed being able to do Christmas cooking and making pompoms for the table with them, and though I sat down last night with plenty of time to cut out the Christmas dresses I couldn't do it. I needed them home with me, and now that they're here I feel like singing again.

For our little family it is Christmas Eve that I look forward to beyond all days on the calendar. It is the day where magic reigns and no matter the year I/we have had or how miserable or cynical or overwhelmed I may have felt in that year, I have never ever failed to feel the veil between adulthood and childhood lifted on that magic night. I always believe in magic, but sometimes a wave of cynicism swamps me and tries to muddy it up. And even the most brilliant moon or a stunning eclipse or the twinkliest stars can't make a dent in it.

But Christmas, Christmas is sacred. The night when bells ring on the stillest breeze and somehow every wish is possible, just might be granted. And in amongst it all the feasting, the togetherness and the family all trump. Until stuffed and exhausted I curl up in my bed, brilliantly lit from the fairy lights in the next room and I smile until my face aches.

It was pouring with rain when we came home tonight and slipped across the wet grass in the dark as we climbed the stairs. The chatter of excited children all around me as I invited them to turn on the gaudy festive lights that I had spent an afternoon unravelling and tacking to the banisters. And as they exclaimed and clapped, while the rain misted over us and sparkled with the lights I could not help but feel that the greatest gift I have ever been given is them - they make everything worthwhile.

And now as the quiet drum of the rain rhythmically caresses the roof, and the gentle gurgle of the gutters and the wet splash on the grass echo through the night, I have my right to steal into the softly lit rooms where little people are curled. And to smooth locks of damp ruffled hair from high smooth foreheads and gift them good dreams as I tuck in dimpled limbs and kiss their baby skin, sniffling in the darkness at how wonderful it is to have them home.

Welcome to Bangkok

That's us in the rearview mirror. We are worried we're about to die in a fiery crash...

I have a confession, when we decided that we would break up our home flight by stopping over for a few days, I didn't actually care where it was. I had no burning desire for anywhere in particular really, my only half baked thought was I wanted somewhere with night markets because I love this Canon ad. And it's funny how accurately we replicated it bouncing through the steamy Bangkok nights. 

We arrived heavily jetlagged at around 6 in the morning. I think it was dawn, but it was hard to tell as the smog over the city is quite thick, held in tight by the incredible humidity. We had come from a particularly bright and frosty morning in Paris, watched a movie marathon and eluded sleep in a freezing plane and it was amazing we could tell which way was up. So we found the cab rank and let the helpful bossy woman there direct us to our cab and tell the driver where to go. And so, about 45 minutes later we were deposited at the Banyan Tree Hotel, on the outskirts of the Bangkok city precinct. 

First, sleepy impressions were good. The lobby was as lovely as we were dishevelled as the porter whisked off our bags and the concierge directed us to the 19th floor so that we could be checked into our Club Room. Once the forms had been sign we asked our smiling hostess if it was possible if we could actually go to our room or if we'd have to wait. I could have cried and only just restrained myself from hugging her when she said we could. 

So at 7 o'clock in the morning, which would have been about 2am in Paris, we walked into this room and saw the bath. I nearly burst into tears, so much did I love it. The bathroom was ridiculously large, larger than our lounge room. 

As you can see, massive. That's just the bath and one of the sinks. One. Of. The. Sinks. Behind me there was the rain shower which was also ridiculously over sized. Not that we noticed much as we were too busy stripping off slimy travelling clothes and jumping in to get clean. By this stage I was so tired that I couldn't work out how to get out of the shower (um, push the door), and after being rescued and finding my bathrobe I properly inspected our bed.

Big doesn't quite describe it. In fact, in the picture because it's so massive in all directions it doesn't look so big, but I could lie sideways across it with my arms above my head and still not reach the edge. I'm 170cm tall, so yeah. Huge. Bingley and I jumped in and slept for 4 blissful hours. Or maybe it was 5. We weren't counting. It was lunch time anyway, and being as I'd refused to eat any of the plane "food" I was ravenous. A quick glance at the room service menu told me I wasn't THAT hungry, and I hollered over to the other side of the bed to Bingley and asked him if he was hungry. He was still jetlagged out of his mind, and not being so used to waking up randomly as I was from shiftwork he had no idea.

While he woke up a little by walking around the room and occasionally into the furniture I had a good look at the view from our 31st floor room. I was pretty impressed.

Then we logged onto the free wifi and tried to work out where one could buy food in Bangkok. The answer, for anyone who doesn't know, is everywhere. We hit the foot path and they were already cooking at little carts all along the road. But being as Bingley was feelign queasy from having succumbed to airline food earlier, we decided to eat at a proper cafe. These were a bit trickier to find, as obviously the Thais are a bit less fastidious than airline-food-regretting-jetlagged-westerners. Eventually though I put my foot down after walking for 20 minutes in the midday heat and said I didn't care where we stopped but if we didn't get something cool to drink soon I was going to melt on the pavement.

So we followed some office workery looking people as they exited their skyscrapers and found a little group of restaurants hidden in a courtyard and ordered soup and noodles. By this time I was wide awake and chatting and cheerful and asking Bingley about where we should go and what we should see next while he looked like this.

After realising that his lack of enthusiasm had nothing to do with being a grumpy miserable bum, and everything to do with the fact that he actually was a zombie, I decided to take pity on him and we walked back to the hotel with the plan to jump in the pool.

The pool was on the 21st floor and overlooked the city. A fact that we enjoyed as we sat on the cabanas and felt very smug. Though we did notice, as we had when we had driven in that there were a lot of sandbags everywhere. This hadn't really registered properly (see: jetlagged) but as we lay out there being smug Westerners, it occurred to me to actually read a news report about Bangkok where we discovered that Bangkok was preparing to be inundated. That day. This could have been a very bad thing, but being as we were safe and high we instead did terrible crass things like swimming in the pool for a few hours. We did see the irony in it.

After the swim, we were both well woken up and looking forward to the main reason we had decided on the Banyan Tree Hotel - its famous roof top bar. We went back to our room to get ourselves prettied up so that we could enjoy sunset on the roof with a few beverages.

New Chanel Lipstick from Galeries Lafayette, Paris

Being a little while off sunset, we decided to avail ourselves of the club lounge and drank the complimentary beverages and a million and one tiny canapes on spoons, sweet and savoury, feeling like we got our money's worth out of the room upgrade. I also enjoyed staring at my pretty shoes and bouncing them around as we excitedly anticipated the roof.

The path up to the Vertigo Grill and Moon Bar involves taking the lift to the top floor and then ascending 2 flights of stairs (one indoor and one outdoor) which was a good test in 5 inch stiletto heels with a few complimentary wines under the belt. By the time we reached the top there were already a few other tourists milling about, and we were shown to the couches behind the bar, but decided we liked the secluded table in the corner better as we ordered mojitos to celebrate.

The bar was amazing. If you have clicked on this link because of references to the Vertigo Bar/Grill then I can tell you that it was absolutely worth it, the view over Bangkok just indescribable. At the time we got up there, it was mostly just grey and humid, playing havoc with my carefully done hair. But as we mellowed in our chairs, the sky began to illuminate. First the clouds turned impossibly pink, then the lights of the city came on like little neon stars.

Bangkok by twilight is not quite the same as Paris

Mojitos and fairy light cities way down below

The bar

The restaurant with the bar in the background. This is my photo and if my dodgy skills can make it this good you can imagine just how spectacular this is in real life.

After we'd eaten our fill of complimentary snacks (the honey pumpkin chips were amazing. I want them right now) and sipped the last mouthful of drink, we changed out of our dressed up clothes and I took off my Louboutins and put on some short shorts and sensible trainers so that we could go explore by night. Although quietened by the floods, Bangkok still had a crazy energy that you just couldn't help but be caught up in.

This is Bangkok for me.

It was hard not to feel self conscious a little as we walked around. The impending floods had obviously devastated tourist numbers, and it wasn't until we happened on the seriously Western shopping centres that we saw any other tourists. As we wandered the night markets it was all about the locals, fresh food and "big eyes". Stalls with Hello Kitty plastered on everything, buckets of fresh produce, so many clothes, random boxes of spices. It was everything that the Canon ad had promised, as we bartered for some clothes and thought about eating. But we were simply too tired after a few hours and decided we would need to take a taxi home.

OHS officers must faint away when they visit Bangkok

Being brave and spontaneous (some would say fool hardy) I was fascinated by the tuktuks that wheeled through the intersections at dangerous speeds, cutting each other off and honking their horns while the grinning drivers flashed brilliant white teeth. One cocky boy with a bit of bumfluff on his chin grinned at me winningly and asked "you want tuktuk?" and named his price. Now I know that in most SE Asian countries you are supposed to barter, but we were tired, and just didn't feel up to it. Plus the price he'd asked, the wildly optimistic price? It was less than $10. Now I know there is fun to be had in bartering, but for a dollar either way? I was happy for him to have it. And so we jumped into the most pimped up tuktuk I'd ever seen and careened into traffic.

Disco lights, baby!

Feet jammed in because that was the closest thing we had to a seat belt

Warp speed

Not sure if we'd make it out alive. 

Having offered to pay his king's ransom of a price, our tuktuk driver was keen to impress us. He zoomed faster than anyone else. He didn't brake. He cut off other drivers and smiled as he passed them. The disco lights above us flashed pink and purple with every acceleration as we zipped through traffic at terrifying speeds. Cars seemed to liquefy beside us, so quickly were we moving. It was without doubt one of the most fun things I have ever done in my life. There is nothing quite like the sensation that you're cheating death as we hurtled around corners and finally to the street outside our hotel. We offered to jump out there, but there was no way our genial driver was having us walk - we had paid good price! So he insisted on taking us all the way in to the valet parking bay and then helping us out of the back (which was handy, as even though we were exhilarated, our legs didn't work so well). We couldn't stop grinning. We were jetlagged, tired, discombobulated and in a land that was like a crazy snowglobe all shaken up and lit with mirror balls, but that somehow made it all the more fun. It was a giant welcome banner, Welcome to Bangkok.

Louvre

Without doubt, that sleep was the best I'd had since arriving in France. I had found home, and my sleepy, weary body had decided finally to succumb to beautiful dreams. I woke at about 7am, just as the cool crispiness of dawn was playing with the curtains and I stretched langorously in our little white room thinking excitedly about the day ahead. I wanted to see the Louvre and had budgeted a whole day to wander as we saw fit amongst the great halls. I knew, as I always knew even before we'd jumped on a plane in the first place, that I would never have enough time to explore all that I wanted to see, but I had a whole day to do whatever I pleased in the Louvre. 

We ate breakfast at our kitchen table and never have I enjoyed plain yoghurt so much. I swung my legs like a little girl under the table and chattered on to the slower waking Bingley before packing up our things to go on the day's adventure. The sun was just hitting the rooftops and the sky was cornflower blue, the air chilly and sharp against my fingers as I tried to be Parisian and chic, but failed miserably as I danced down the street. 

As we approached the Seine the Louvre on the opposite bank glowed in the early morning sunshine. The gentle haze formed by the white gravel bathing the lot in some sort of mystical light as I continued to dance around like a sprite, demanding that Bingley look look at that lamp post  and giggled at the "photo shoot" taking place in front of one of the pyramids. Hilarious business while I looked in awe at the rainbows bouncing through the IM Pei pyramids juxtaposed against the stately elegance of the museum. 

There were no queues as we descended under the pyramid and found ourselves in the discombobulating grand central station beneath the pyramid. Having no real idea what we wanted to see or do first, we picked up audioguides and headed for the temporary exhibition contrasting the empires of France and China. It was fascinating, with correlations drawn between both imperial nations that I had never before considered, and renewed again my determination to study more Chinese history. 

After that exhibit I wanted to see the Egyptian antiquities, so we made our way through the massive collection while listening to the audioguides for explanation and extra history facts, truly confirming our nerdly status. But I loved it. It gave so much more dimension, and was immensely useful for Bingley, as most of the written information with exhibits was in French. 

After Egypt, we found ourselves face to face with a laminated poster pointing "this way to Mona Lisa" and figuring that she is the Louvre's most famous tenant, felt we ought to visit. They didn't need signs to point the way, it was like there was a black hole in the middle of the museum where bus loads of tourists were invariably sucked. We found her antechamber, and from across the room, we saw her small smile, but that was not what drew most attention. In a room filled with masterpieces of grand and elaborate style, this tiny painting (though larger actually than I thought) was protected by a velvet rope, around which a virtual paparazzi storm of pushing, flashing cameras ebbed and flowed. It was a curious site, all these people posing with their backs to her. Many who forced their way to the front of the assembled mob, took a photo and then left. It was surreal. Bingley did not want to go anywhere near the posing, posturing, flash happy mob, and walked the perimeter as I slowly made my way through the crowd. 

At the front of the velvet rope, I stood there for probably 10 minutes, trying to work out why she was so famous. Is she famous for just being famous? I think, in large part, this is true. I think of the hundred or so people standing with me, raucously vying for the impossible perfect photograph of an image that I can download in 2 seconds, that they were less interested in seeing her, than being seen to have been with her. I wanted to feel the sense of mystery that has caused her to reach this status, but can't help but feel that so much of her celebrity is through her story than any particular artistic merit. La Giaconda was not a particularly beautiful woman, but she is absolutely compelling. She looks intelligent, soft and yet strong at the same time. But I doubt many people noticed that, even though her face will be part of a happy snap album for millions. 

After this, and the gallery of masters, we needed a break and opted for the cafe at the top of the stairs. It was very average and served the worst coffee we had in France, but we sat in the window of a French palace and talked about art, so there were some saving graces. We also played a terribly politically incorrect game of guess the nationality of the tourist, which was wrongly fun. I mean seriously, who wears a too tight hot pink JUICY couture tracksuit to the Louvre? And then accessorises it with a perm? I swear some people ask to be a cliche. 

We wandered without much direction after lunch, and found ourselves in the Greek sculpture gallery which made my heart hurt from the loveliness. It was near empty, unlike the Mona Lisa room, and I was able to circle my favourite Canova sculptures reverently and alone. They are so beautiful, and as the light hit it from the window placed next to them, so luminous. I teared up a little at the sheer emotion and the beautiful detail. Marble is such a lovely medium, it made me want to learn so that I could capture pieces of soul in stone and let them glow in the light. 

Even the Venus de Milo, one of the most famous occupants of the Louvre was alone when we found her. Still draped beautifully, her soft curves glowing with health and the sunlight that streamed through the windows. My fingers itched desperately for a pencil as I circled her, wanted to capture her lines and the savage loveliness of the ragged edges of her missing limbs. The audio guide was informative and very interesting, giving information as to how to date carving and little details that I would never have noticed. If you have stumbled on this blog through the magic of google, and are wondering whether the 8E or whatever it was is worth it, then a thousand times yes. Unless you already know everything about the works contained within, it is a wonderful way to feel educated and enlightened while being humbled, amazed and inspired at the same time. 

Then, though it was early afternoon, we had reached loveliness saturation point. We could not appreciate any further, so wandered out, past the inverted pyramid into the dazzling sunshine. The light against the buildings was so beautiful that I simply stopped and gazed at it for some time, overcome by the light and shadow against the blue. We continued to walk, no fixed direction just ambling when we came across the book sellers on the Seine, opening up their green stalls and proudly displaying their contents. Much of it was gaudy or tacky or both, but somehow it also fit in without feeling cheap as we ignored the vast tracts of I HEART PARIS merchandise and I flicked instead through the antique postcards. I wish I had bought some, and am not entirely sure why I didn't. I read a handful and translated them as best I could to Bingley. Handwritten cards with fading ink, with little messages on the back. I wanted to find a love letter, but the ones that came closest I found I couldn't translate and did not want to, so I put them back in their box. 

As we stepped onto the ancient Pont Neuf, the breeze began to dance along the Seine, making ripples as she landed, ruffling my hair and bringing roses into cheeks. I wanted to see the Square du Vert Galant where Henri IV paraded his amours in the soft green light under the trees and we made our way through the gate to find that this legendary lover's lane is also now a pontoon for tourist boats that trip up and down the Seine. Being such a beautifully blue day and with the wind beseeching me to come play out on the water, we paid for our overpriced tickets and jumped on board - climbing to the roof and to the front seats so that nothing would obstruct our view. 

It was touristy, it was not very Parisian at all, and yet it was completely perfect. The view of the bridges as we sailed under them and made wishes was incomparable. We saw monuments in a completely different light and the air was different as well. It wasn't just the sunshine, or the festive feel on our boat as we listened to tidbits in English, French and Spanish. It was something about the river itself, alive and purring as it lapped against the prow. When we left the boat in the golden light of the afternoon I couldn't help a very unParisian smile from creasing my cheeks. We sat on the edge of the Seine in the tiny (tiny) square and watched the world go by, surrounded by uni students with their pants and skirts pulled up, sunning their legs in the warmth. 

Some time later we headed home, across the bridge that is covered with locks that glinted like the gilding on the more elaborate bridges and I wistfully looked at the messages engraved, written or implied by these cheap locks on an ugly bridge. I suggested to Bingley that we ought to lock one to the bridge and throw our key into the Seine never to be retrieved - and he reminded me that once a year they cut them all off anyway, and that we had no lock in any case. Metaphors lost, we continued on... he's not afflicted with whimsy, is Bingley. 

We intended to go out for dinner that evening, but had a feast instead curled up on the couch, with stinky cheese and wine and fresh fruit and bread that we bought from a boulanger on our trek home. And for dessert, two plump chocolate macarons that were crisp and chewy and rich and saucy and delightful, but I would have loved anyway, just for their very being macarons. 

Rue Las Cases

Louvre at dawn

Louvre lamps

Lamps in the light

Pyramids and Arches

Egyptian Antiquities

Beautiful ceilings, gilded

Madonna of the Rocks

Mistress of the Louvre, surveying the thronging masses skeptically

Canova's Cupid and Psyche

Pure, obstacle obliterating love

Aphrodite

aka Venus de Milo

Steel and glass and light in symphony

The rainbow maker

Afternoon light on Rue Rivoli

Book sellers along the Seine

Gradient blue and hey look - a lamp post!!

Musee d'Orsay

Boats along the Seine

Pont Alexandre

The Grey Lady and the Carousel

Notre Dame

Green in the Square of Gallant Green