No sooner had I blogged, twas blue sky as far as the eye could see…

So, today. Book. Bed by pool. Gin. Food. Repeat to fade…

Tomorrow, an island hop over to Fuertaventura for the day. Then more gin….

Iain loves gin. In any country. And in every timezone…

Big norks today, baby norms tomorrow. Which is fine, as yesterdays lack of norks has led to me being a teensy bit burnt…

So. Holiday thus far since Tuesday…

- get up
- breakfast
- lie by pool
- lunch
- lie by pool some more
- sup gin
- eat some more
- drink some more

Always considered myself a cultured sort. Holidays being about more than just recharging, but refreshing the mid and taking in some cultural bits n bobs as I travel.

But this weekdellow gin lovers, I fear the gin and the pool may win….

Iain is a gin loving lazy sun worshipped this week…..

EAT ME!

So, Lady Verburgh picks me up from the Van  Gogh (not Gok), museum and we stroll on in the glorious sunshine. In the typically Dutch way, she bumped into a friend she knew. Who was on a bike, naturally…

As the sun was streaming down, we stop at a little bar to sit outside and watch the world go by (rush hour for bikes, love it!), and sink a few lovely Dutch beers.

After some mild flirtation with a delicious bringer of beer, it was time for a quick hop, skip and saunter through the red light district to Nieuwmarkt for dinner at Villa Nieuwmarkt on the edge of one of the cities finest squares.

The restaurant is a cross between a small bar / restaurant (but more restaurant than gastro pub if that makes sense?) and afterwards, I almost needed rolling home.

Lady Verburgh had a delicious little steak, and I went for the infamous cheese fondue which they strongly recommend. Being a pescitarian, I wasn’t going for the equally famous chicken satay, so it was the never-ending cheesetastic extravaganza for me…

Through bread, veg, chips, I ploughed on. The monster slice of fat bastard chocolate mousse cake we somehow managed to mange our way through after has left me feeling rather full – even this morning!

So, today. The weather is sweet. And after a long lazy breakfast, it’s time to have another coffee before we think about braving the day…

Iain is not having any more cheese today. Well, until the evening anyway…

Girlfriend, embrace your naked bad self (or words to that effect)...

You’ll appreciate it when you’re older’.

The parents way of saying ‘shut the fuck up you ungrateful,
snivelling, expensive uncultured teenage neanderthal. Look at this work of unparalleled beauty I have paid 15 euros for you to turn your nose up at, you will appreciate it. I don’t care if you’d rather be mutilating your friends on Xbox, soak up some of Van Gogh’s genius and stop moaning before I send you to boarding school for some peace and ruddy quiet!’ Or words to that effect…

I find art galleries fascinating spots.

I have a genuine love of art and although I know little about it, I love spending hours wandering round galleries. Odd as it may seem, I seem to spend almost as much time people watching as I do appreciating that which the artists have taken great care (usually) to produce…

Kids are usually bored and dragging their feet; testing their weary parents patience from exhibit to exhibit. Tourists may be there as they feel they should be (it says so on pg 83 of ‘the book’), young lovers coo and caress, pondering all the while if the other is as bored as they are. All watched over by the staff, silently policing idiots with cameras as everyone dutifully shuffles room to room.

My favourite breed has to be the true art lover. He or she can usually found lost in a moment, stood gawping in awe spending more time at a single piece than it takes most folk to speed round 30 of Van Gogh’s finest. Think kaftan, and we’re half way there.

A brilliant people watching spot. And in my experience, a great ground to find a mate, should you go a-hunting with your eyes open.

C’mon, let’s face it, if they’re there on their own in such a cultural hot spot, dressed to kill, possess furious deep, dark pools for eyes (complemented by the look that says tortured poets soul wrestling away inside), and free of a Friday afternoon, then the odds must surely be good. N’est pas?

Iain’s loving a bit of Gogh action in the ‘dam. And that’ll be Van, not Gok, obviously…

Being a hardy Scot, I have an ability to drink for long periods without falling down / passing out / vomiting. This led to my being in pieces for 1.5 days, and stabbing pains in my kidneys for about a week. Not smart. This culminated in my proclamations of the wagon being the way forward for at least a month, as the very whiff of alcomafrol made me want to wretch.

Until last night that is.

The good Lady Verburgh of Dutchland currently works in our little Amsterdam outpost and very kindly offered to put me up for the weekend in her gorgeous canal side city central apartment. She’s a gem, a kindred spirited sort of colleague that’s very easy to befriend. So, the view from her pad that’s ten mins walk to central station?

From the font, a lovely quiet tree-lined street, with the Dutch cycling by now and again. From the back, one of the many famed slices of canal, coupled with a stunning old church…

We polished off a bottle of red wine between us last night. I think it’s fair to say I will from here on in adopt a sensible drinking strategy. Now, time to pop out for some Van Gough me thinks.

Until the next alcoholic accident…

Iain is off for some art, bicycling, trams and Dutch lovin…

My husband and I...

Am in Copenhagen.

Weather (and men) are cold. Gluwein and women are hot. Poor stunning Danish women; no wonder they have to travel to find husbands. Where are all the Danish, viking type hunks I was dreaming of…

Anyway, yesterday on foot sightseeing (tick-box tourism, little mermaid, waterfront, museums, palaces etc), was most gratifying. Lovely, compact delicious little city. Bloody expensive (more so to eat / drink than Londinium), but a very friendly people…

Yesterday’s highlight? Seeing the Queen of Denmark leave the palace in her limo. Was only an Audi. Our Queen has MUCH better…

Iain is braving the cold for another day in the hagen…

Should have some time soon to look back on the last few days with a smile, as the aussie leg of the tour comes to an end.

Iain is not ready to go home…

So, cup day. We train home. We coffee, we eat. The evening should be drawing to a sensible, natural close. It’s approaching 11pm. But Pinky, well, he had other ideas…

A quick induction to a slice of gay Melbourne, The Exchange. Whatever you’re thinking, you’re probably right. Wasn’t so busy, so we hot footed it (via a rambling taxi drive looking for somewhere open at 1am), to the Prince of Wales, a delicious old mans pub that’s had a trendy makeover, but feels authentic.

Two bars (like the Queen Vic when they pull the curtain), one for the Lords, and one for the hetros. Very nice indeed, quality punters, hot bar staff, and a lovely Melbournian vibe.

So, home next? No, it’s time for Cushion. A rather small club, that was full with a nice mix of backpackers, cup revellers, and a few homs thrown in for good measure.

We’d moved onto doubles several rounds ago, so given the copious amounts of champers consumed during the day, we were well oiled. So when I clocked the three strapping rugby hunks, all well over six foot, all with guns to die for larking about like lads do, my tongue was literally lolling on the sticky floor.

One inparticular, Aussie with roots somewhere in the pacific islands was just gorgeous God knows how he did it, but Pinky managed to engineer me next to him at the bar. The memory recalls feeling his guns, back, abs and arse. Not quite sure how I managed (he was definetly not on my team), but it was a rather delicious Melbourne highlight none the less…

Cheesy chips followd at Cone Head (the best I’ve had out of Scotland), and we crawled home circa 4am.

Lord only knows how I escaped a serious hangover, god knows I deserved some serious punishment after putting all that away…

Still, those guns. Enough to being a tear to your eye….

Iain is off on a wander down to the beach…

Up at ten am, the Pinkster lands with take-out flat whites shortly after (heaven).

Train to Flinders, pick up the rest of the crew, then a train to the race-course. Champers in the members bar daaahling, followed by my first ever grown up bet on a horse.

So, I ask for five dollars each way on a horse. Give him ten bucks, and I’m waiting on my change. Soooooo didn’t get the rules, but that bad boy won me sixty bucks as he romped home second!

Felt good taking the money off the bookie. Sweet as. Next race, and I pick second again, only 7.50 on that one, but I ended the day about fifty up, so rather happy.

Supped pink champagne all day, popped my betting cherry, and enjoyed the melbourne cup with the 102,000 other punters…

Iain picks on horses names. Sod form…

Why?

The day of build-up before the Melbourne cup. Sort of like Blightys’ Royal Asco; except the whole nation stops for the Melbourne
cup.Whether at home, in the pub or at the race, everything literally stops for this one race.

Bit excited about going. Never been to the races, and the fact Pinky has managed to wangle me a members pass, is just icing on a very delicious cake…

So, Monday. Not usually my favourite day of the week. But this one, well, twas a rather productive Monday.

A lie in, closely followed by a coffee+spot of brunch on Chapel street, a hair chop, the purchasing of the most delightful leather man bag, a swim, sauna, dinner (ultra healthy heart foundation approved tasty takeaway pizza), The Aussie Apprentice (fire them all, including the Aussie SurAllan / Trump wannabe), and an early night in
anticipation of a glorious (and profitable), day at the races…

Chuck in a glorious spring day, hot men on every street corner, my fantastic hosts, and you’ll understand why I’m loving my week off here in Melbourne.

And I’ve not even been anywhere near Ramsey Street yet…

Iain loves Kath+Kim land…