The Seaside the seaside!!!!

Well it's monday - so obviously I have just finished a new piece for lonely planet, which I will post at the end here.... but first I went to the beach!! Did I get in - no, but gotta say, Fo this is the perfect beach for Sambo. First of all, no waves.... second of all, you have to go out about 500m before the water gets past your knees!! I am not kidding. It was 27degrees yesterday, so YAY!!! I even have some colour...


and one for Sambo!!


and finally (my boyfriend the best photographer EVER - managed to take a photo at the perfect angle to make my legs look soooo thin) took a photo of me stripping off into my bikini's just to prove it can be hot in sweden!!


and for the lonely planet piece - remember www.myspace.com/lonelyplaneteurope

Who I am.....
If I subscribe to the theory that we create our own destiny, then I assume I must subscribe to the theory that it is who I am, as a person which influences my experiences, and not my experiences which determine who I become. But surely that can’t be right. If you look at me now, I am nothing like that girl who first left Australia many years ago.

Then, I was a 23yr old countrified tyke who packed 20kgs of belongings in with a plane ticket, some fresh faced freckles, a passport and the belief that $500 would last long enough for me to land on my feet. Of course, I did, but not before a stint of boarding with a deranged English woman who drank tenants super for breakfast and shared her bed with a man whose nail polish and sleeping bag were permanently parked at Earls Court Station.

Along with my equally naïve and countrified companion, we spent weeks padlocking our bedroom door from the inside, and hastily climbing out a window and over a rusting fence to prevent the theft of our belongings. After enduring many a drunken rampage and then finally the disappearance of my last £20, we packed up our belongings along with some mortification and new found awareness. We fled to a friend of a friend's spare room. It was here for a little less than the price of hostel bed, we could finally take solace in the fact that we weren't in any imminent danger. That is, provided we ignored the questionable bags of white powder hidden beneath the sink, the doorbell ringing at all hours of the night, and the absolute lack of hot water. That period lead to what I believe was a metamorphosis of character and soul.
Fast-forward 8 years and you will find me repacking, this time 50kgs of belongings together with an assumed sense of maturity and responsibility. Off I headed with my leather bags and the wafting scent of duty free Chanel… unfortunately it was mixed with the sent of looming failure. I moved to Sweden believing that as a well educated and intelligent English speaker I would again land on my feet despite having no knowledge of the language, or the job culture. I now spend my days exploring and taking photographs of beautiful architecture and wildflowers, whilst rivalling the domestic skills of a 1950s housewife. I also precariously read job advertisements in what could be either Russian or Swedish - because I am still not qualified to differentiate.
Hmmmmm. Sound familiar? Seems it was not such a metamorphosis of character after all. It would appear that I am just making new versions of my old mistakes. That it is essentially me, who influences my experiences. Regardless, I am thankful for the part of me that is still a clueless country girl, because without her, I wouldn’t be here and I wouldn’t be hoping for the possibility of even more mistakes.