So I had a barium xray this week. As soon as they asked me to undress I realised I had not made the best choice in wearing my Winnie the Pooh socks and BRIGHT PINK g-string. I had to sit (freezing my arse off) in a waiting room wearing only the sexy blue, hospital issue, smock and the offending socks for ages before my Doogie Howser of a Doctor called me in.

First I had to eat a mouthful of what must be the un-tasty equivalent of pop rocks and I could barely swallow them since they fizzed up so much. Those were to bloat up my stomach and I was told NOT to burp (like I ever would! What kind of crass girl do they think I am!!?) and then Doogie got me to gulp down the fruit flavoured plaster of paris otherwise known as barium. It was like drinking white glue made nearly solid with chalk but with a “pleasant” fruit flavour. I did get to watch the peristaltic motion of my esophagus on the screen though which was kinda cool.

Next I had to lay down and then Doogie got me to turn left, turn right, turn left, lay on my back but sort of lean to the right, put my left foot in, put my left foot out, shake it all about...etc. During all this flip flopping and x-raying, my damn blue gown had wadded itself into a bunch somewhere around my waist leaving my rear end (in all its pink thong glory) hanging out for Doogie Doctor, Real Doctor Teaching Doogie, and Nice Nurse to see. Lucky them.

Once the x-ray was done I went to get dressed and realised my mouth was coated in chalky white barium. So basically I was looking HOT!!!! Nothing looks better than a smock, Pooh socks and a chalk stained mouth let me tell ya!

So anyway, all in all it was not a bad experience but I learned that it is tough to look cool while getting a barium xray (cause normally I am all about the cool as the Pooh socks prove). Plus I got to see my stomach and how many other people can say they did THAT this week!?

Thanks to day after day of spectacularly sunny weather, I have been eating my lunch in a small park behind where I work.  This “park” is surrounded by low-income condos and there is a small playground. 

 For the longest time it was just me and the trees in the park, but lately I have been joined by a young boy named Drew who lives in one of the surrounding houses and likes to play on the monkey bars. He is five, he lives at number 247, and his mom’s boyfriend’s name is Mike. How do I know this? Drew told me.  It seems that I have an admirer. 

 On our first meeting, Drew came up to me on the pretext of checking out my lunch. He told me how he wanted to have his hair done in cornrows because otherwise his head looks like a “bum bum.” He then proceeded to draw a picture of a man in the sand and explicate the details of his artwork:

“This is his leg, this is his arm, and this is his willy!” (followed by incontrollable giggles).

On another meeting, Drew walked up to me while using the tried and tested method of producing a fart noise by stuffing his hand under his armpit and pumping his arm up and down.  He proudly asked me if I could do the same.  I replied that sadly, I could not, but then showed him the far superior method of putting your mouth in the crook of your inner elbow and blowing.  This creates a nice wet explosion to which Drew looked pleasantly shocked! He smiled and exclaimed, “Whoa! That sounded like you pooped your pants!” I am pretty sure this was a moment of true love.

So recently I was once again enjoying my salad and sandwich in the park, when Drew’s sister Chandra joined us.  She is 6 and had recently got her finger caught in a door which had caused the nail to become black and lumpy.  Anyway, Chandra comes out and looks and Drew, then looks at me, and yells loudly across the playground, “So is that your girlfriend?” with a smug smile on her Slurpee stained face.  This caused Drew to look up at me in horror and frantically yell, “SHE NOT MY GIRLFREIND!”  But this didn’t satisfy Chandra. No, she had to humiliate her little brother more (its what us big sisters do best) so she says, “well Michael says you love her and she is your girlfriend” in a mocking tone to which Drew once again yelled “SHE’S NOT MY GIRLFRIEND!!!” in wide eyed panic.

I tried my best not to laugh, but I found it funny how emphatically he had to defend himself. I have never been rejected so harshly, but I have learned over time that when you are a five year old boy (or 15, or 25, or 35….) it is a HORRIBLE thing to have a girlfriend! Ew! Cooties!  But I have also learned that the stronger the denial, the deeper the truth.  So my five year old boyfriend and I are going to continue on like nothing ever happened. We will continue the chit chat about hairdos and lunch, and go on making fart noises through various methods… and really that is like any other relationship I have had.

Hmm where to begin….

 Ireland. I loved it.

40 shades of green and smoke free bars. Perfect.

My 4 days in Ireland were a green blur (how do you count 40 shades of green anyway?). I had a day in Dublin and then was off on my tour for the other 3 days. I used Paddywagon Tours (http://www.paddywagontours.com/ ) and it was well worth the money. My tour was a nicely mixed group of mature married couples and younger singles so I wasn’t stuck on a bus with a bunch of 20 year old drunken yobs, or in the back of the geriatric ward.

The first day of our tour began with the group of us standing out in the rain waiting for our driver Phil. And we waited…and waited…and waited….until he finally showed up almost an hour late in a BRIGHT ORANGE bus. Luckily he was easily likeable, so our disgruntled group quickly melted into a placid assortment of holiday makers and we filed into the bus to firmly mark our territory with various backpacks, hats, and tour books.

The morning turned surprisingly sunny, and the drive to Galway was a pastoral painting of stone fences, white horses, and of course green green green! We stopped at a Monastery along the Shannon river to take some pictures of gravestones and as I was walking backwards (don’t ask me why, my excuse is that I was taking pictures) I tripped on a gravestone, did a graceful stumble about face, and then plunged my foot into this tiny well of water! So for the rest of the day everywhere I walked I was followed by a sound of “step, squish, step, squish” and was feeling very sorry for myself. I stopped whining about my wet foot only after our driver told us a story of how on one of their tours, at the same Monastery, a guy tripped on a gravestone, did a graceful about face, and then plunged his head into a tiny well of water, where he proceeded to be knocked unconscious in the 6 inches of water and drown!!!!! So I consider myself lucky. Dying would have ruined my holiday.

That night we arrived in Galway and I took a walk out to the ocean and looked westward towards home. The wind nearly pushed me off the pier and my hair was whipping me in the face like affectionate tentacles, but I stood there and looked as hard as I could. It made me feel good to know my home was out there somewhere.

The tour group met that night for dinner and drinks and to cheer on the Irish team in their football match, and there I tried a Baby Guinness. Basically it is a shot that looks like a Guinness, but tastes oooooooh soooo much nicer (see Guinness story at the end). Yum.

So my whole reason for going on this tour was not because I wanted to taste Guinness in its homeland, not because I wanted to find a leprechaun and steal his treasure, not because I wanted to feel the magic of the Emerald Island, no, I went to see the Cliffs of Moher. Better known to me, my family, and all the truly cool people of the world, as the Cliffs of Insanity from the movie The Princess Bride! “Inconceivable!” you say? No, it is true. So imagine my excitement when on day 2 of the tour we pulled up to the Cliffs and I got to witness them in their true grandeur!  Ahh, I couldn’t wait to take picture after picture so I could remember this day forever. So I took a picture, and another, and then my camera battery died and basically I screamed as loud as Wesley when the Six Fingered Man set The Machine to 50!!!!! I am sure even Buttercup heard me. WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!! Inconceivable!!!!  So anyway, I have had to store the images of the Cliffs of Insanity in my safe-like memory (what’s the code again?) and that is where they will have to remain. It was amazing to see them though, so all was not lost.

One of the stops we made that day was not even part of the regular Paddywagon itinerary, but it moved me the most. Our driver stopped at this place called St. Bridget’s well because he wanted to “bless” himself with the water. The well itself is covered by a sort of rickety shack and I went into it not expecting much, and left it with tears in my eyes.  Inside, for years and years, people had left trinkets of their departed loved ones so St. Bridget would look after them in Heaven. The walls were covered with pictures and poems, and on the vines that hung down through the cracks of the shack, people had attached hairclips or ribbons, stuffed toys, and even jewellery. There were words to the deceased, and words to St. Bridget. Many of these items were faded and worn from being there so many years, but to see those possessions and memories of the dead who had owned them was really moving.  It made a dead camera battery seem VERY VERY trivial.

That night we arrived in Killarney and went on a horse drawn buggy ride around the National Park. That was quite fun and very peaceful. Picture lakes and mountains and deer. Picture Canada really.

 On the final day of the tour there was just me, our driver Phil, and an Aussie named Andrew. The rest of the group stayed on for a longer tour.  Our first stop was at Blarney Castle to kiss the much acclaimed stone. I was picturing a big rock in a field, but no, the Blarney stone has been built into the castle and it is up on the highest part of the tower.  In order to kiss the stone, you have to lie on your back, and then bend over backwards while gripping some hand rails (plus they have a little old man there to hold onto you-and no, he didn’t just step up when it was my turn, he helped everyone!). Below you, you see the earth a good 3 floors down, and you have to be very careful not to scrape your nose when the old man hauls you back up so the next person can get their turn. Anyway, kissing the stone is supposed to give you the gift of eloquence. Seeing as I am such the quiet type, I think this should help me a lot! 

Once we got back to Dublin that night, I went out with Andrew and two other guys from the hostel for a Bailey’s (well, they had Guinness). One of the guys just kept laughing and laughing and said through tears of laughter, “you just talk soooooo much!” I tried to blame it on the Blarney Stone, but who am I kidding. Even in writing I talk too much.

So to finish off this epic tale, I will leave you with my first (and last) experience with the lifeblood of Ireland, Guinness. I don’t enjoy beer (lager, stout, meal in a glass, whatever) generally, so was not really looking forward to it, but felt it had to be done. I went and ordered myself a half-pint and basically this is how is went:

1.       Me holding my Guinness

2.       Me tentatively tasting my Guinness

3.       Me managing to spill the rest of my Guinness entirely into my lap.

So yes, I had an Irish Christening. And I may have gone home that night emanating the odours of a brewery and walking like a cowboy after too long on his horse, but all I could think was, “well at least I didn’t have to drink the rest of it! Yay!”  Yeah, so I am not a fan of the Guinness, but I gave it a go.

Well there you go. Ireland. I loved it. The grannies may use worse swear words than I could even write without blushing, and it may rain on your head a lot, but the people, like the views, are magnificent and win you over no matter how wet your feet are, or how much Guinness you spill on your crotch.

Now I know Nottingham is not on the coast, and even if it was you wouldn’t want to surf there because it is BLOODY cold, but despite all this, last weekend Shan and I surfed in Nottingham. Couch surfed that is. 

So http://www.couchsurfing.com/  is a sight I have recently registered on where you can stay on people’s couches, and offer up your own couch for surfing as well. For Free! You know those are the magic words for me! You register your details and can check out other people’s profiles and then if it all works out, stay on their couch/futon/floor/whatever. Sort of like a dating service for couches.

Anyway, Shan and I stayed with a guy named Paul and his housemates Simon and Neil and we had an absolutely fabulous time!

When we arrived in Nottingham, Paul told us to meet him at Brown’s. No address, no street name, no general idea where this may be. However, being that people outside of London are MUCH more willing to help lost Canadian’s, we asked around and found ourselves, lo and behold, at Brown’s. 

After giving us a few tips of what we could see in Nottingham (ie. not much), Paul suggested we go to the “oldest pub in England” called the Ye Old Trip to Jerusalem where the crusaders supposedly used to visit.  However, I have been to MANY pubs in England that claim to be the oldest, but when I asked Paul why this one was the oldest, his only argument was, “uh, well, cause is says so on the sign”. So oldest pub or not, we did trek over to the “Trip” as the locals call it, and it was quite cool.  The pub is actually cut into the sandstone hills behind it, and one whole room is a cave. 

That night after a few drinks out in Nottingham, we went back to the house with the boys and ended up chatting in the kitchen until 4am. I love doing that. It has been ages since I have done that.  We had tea and toast and just had a laugh.

The next day Shan and I were off to Sherwood Forest to find Robin Hood and steal his tights.  We arrived on a perfectly blue skied day and went for a wander out to the Great Oak that Robin Hood was said to have met his merry men at before they robbed the rich. Of course the tree was most likely just a sapling in the 11 hundreds, but whatever, I am not one to dispute a legend. 

Shan donned her lovely green felt Robin Hood hat, and I played the part of Maid Marian with my multi-coloured, slightly 80’s retro, headdress. As we walked through the forest, I tried to impress Shan with my rendition of “Not in Nottingham” from Disney’s Robin Hood, but instead of a jaunty rooster, Shan said I sounded more like Johnny Cash ( I blame that on you dad!). So I changed my tune to “Robin Hood and Little John, running through the forest….” and all was good.

After taking our obligatory pics of the Great Oak, we went off the path and enjoyed the serenity, silence, and sunlight streaming through the trees (holy alliteration batman!) deeper in the forest. It felt so spiritual and I gazed around me in awe of how perfect nature can be, when I stepped into a HUGE fresh pile of dog doo! Let’s just say I did not handle this as lady like as Maid Marian would have. Am pretty sure some swearing was involved and then I continued the walk scraping my one leg behind me slightly Quasimodo-esque. Ahhhh Quasimodo in a multicoloured headdress. Picture it….

Anyway, dog doo shoe aside, the forest was lovely. We were only there maybe an hour, but that is all you need to see the tree, take a pic, sing a song, and step in excrement. Any longer and you would get bored.

So all in all we had a great weekend. We left the anger and dirt of London behind us, met some new people, laughed until 4am, and were at one with nature. Plus for me it was just great to spend some time alone with Shan like we did in the good ‘ol days.

Oh and as an aside, on the train up to Nottingham I was knitting myself a mitten much to the amusement of the two British ladies across the row from me.  They were the perfectly typical British grannies, with their wool hats and pristine white gloves. As we were getting off the train, the one lady told me she was pleased to see that I was using the proper method of using 4 needles, and then informed me that “knitting is very sexy right now”. Not “hip” or “with it” or “all the rage” as I would expect a Grandma to say, no she told me it was “sexy”. She was probably about 85 and came up to my armpit, but she knew what was sexy and what was not. I mean, I don’t even know what is sexy! I thought my Maid Marian headdress was sexy! The next time someone pokes fun of me for knitting, I am going to look them straight in the eye and say, “knitting is sexy” cause you can’t argue with a granny!

I recently went to Prague for a weekend with Shannon and Jason. It is a city I have wanted to visit since I first travelled in Europe 5 years ago, so it was exciting to finally see it.

I awoke the morning of our journey at the painful hour of 3am.  Then, missing my bus by mere seconds, I had to take a brisk 20 minute walk down to Liverpool station to catch the bus out to the airport.  Being 3am, most of the people on the streets were drunk and on their way home to bed after a night partying.  One group of guys I passed were at the point of drunkenness where you can only really communicate by pointing out the obvious such as “lamp post,” or “bus.” When I passed these boys they said, in what I can only assume was a reference to me, “backpack!”  I liked that. I thought it described me well.

So after the efforts of getting to Prague (planes, trains, automobiles…you know), we basically just spent most of our time checking out the sites and having coffee. The first day was really cold and rainy but in between cloud bursts we saw the main square and the Charles Bridge. The latter was packed with not only tourists, but more caricature artists and junky jewellery stands than you can shake a stick at! And I do love a good stick shaking! We also, meandered amongst the marionette shops and popped into the Kafka Museum.

That night we went for a dinner that brought tears to my eyes. It was a restaurant called U Fleku (http://www.ufleku.cz/en/) and it was very Germanic with tuba’s and accordions playing live music at the tables, plus the food was amazing! This place had such a noisy and energetic vibe to it.  We were ushered in amongst the hubbub of beer mugs clinking, people laughing and talking, and the oom pa pa of the tuba. Once seated, we were greeted by a waiter bearing a large tray of beer mugs full of a dark brown, very cold beer.  Instead of asking us if we wanted a drink, he more or less demanded, “beer!” and passed us our mugs. How could we say no to that!? I am not even a beer drinker, but Prague is known for having the best beer in the world, so when in Prague….

Next came a guy with a tray full of shots (or “aperitif” as he called it).  We tried to decline these, but were told emphatically, “it is tradition!” so once again we had to oblige. It was a strange liquor, with a smell of nutmeg and a burn worse that whisky or absinthe or antifreeze (am just guessing on that last one) mixed together. I had been cold all day, but as soon as I felt that shot (3 gulps of shot by the way) burn its way down my esophagus, I began to strip off the layers. Ah nothing like Czech alcohol to warm your soul.    

The food was my kind of food. Pork, potatoes, dumplings, sauerkraut AND red cabbage. If there had only been perogees (even my spell check can’t figure this one out! How the heck do you spell it!??) I would never have had to go back home.

The next day was sunny so we did some more wandering in churches and castles. For lunch we just bought sausages from a street stand and sat in the square listening to a band consisting of a trumpet, drums, a bass, and a singer. It was great. Then we went to the Museum of Communism to try and learn something, but I fell asleep during the movie and there was too much stuff to read, so I just looked at the pretty pictures and then got Jason to explain it all to me after. If anyone wants a vague and mostly incorrect overview of Communism in Prague, just ask me, or Shan, and I am sure we can make something up.

So that was about it. Prague was nice, but I think what made the trip so good was being there with Shan and Jason. None of us had a plan (I love non-planners!) and we just talked, laughed, and ate a lot. My perfect trip really! Oh and if any of you want to go stay at Hostel Kaktus.  It was smoky and the breakfast was basically bread and water, but it is cactus spelt with K’s!  How cool is that?!

Maybe it is just me, but I found this little incident really funny.

Last night I was chatting to Brad on MSN when much to my distress, he suddenly disappeared offline! At that point I changed my Display Name to "Ack, where is my Bradley?!"  A little later, my uncle came online and his message that popped up read, "well I certainly don't have it!" which seemed sort of strange to me, but I was signing out at the time so didn't really ask him about it.

Then this morning I signed on to MSN to discover that the shortened version of my Display Name was "Ack, where is my Bra" and I nearly spat out my Nero Latte when I started to laugh. Now my uncle's statement made sense. And then I started to think about the circumstances in which "Ack, where is my Bra" could have been appropriate and thought my poor uncle must be wondering where the hell I am working here in London!

Anyway, to anyone concerned, I am still working in my boring office job and my bra is firmly in place where it is supposed to be. However, I have been considering a second job, and Soho is just around the corner...

 This week I seem to have spent a tad more time than usual digging through garbage.

It started on Tuesday when I went to the fridge at work to get my yummy leftover spaghetti, only to find it gone! Aaaaa! Aaaaa! No spaghetti!

I went on a mad rave of how stupid the cleaner was for throwing out my perfectly good food (I only put it in there the day before), and whined and whinged (how unlike me!) and even shed a small tear for my lost lunch. Now what was I going to do to fill my grumbly tummy!?

Then as I was still ranting about the incompetence of our cleaner, Michelle walked past me and said “oh, was that YOUR spaghetti? Sorry, I threw it out this morning. I thought it was old,” which of course caused me to gulp my hostile words then and there because there is NO WAY I could ever call Michelle stupid or incompetent and I had to rapidly change my tune from “grumble grumble” to “sing song sweet, all is fine”: “Oh Michelle it’s OK, I don’t mind garbage flavoured spaghetti!”

So then I was left with the dilemma of either buying new lunch, or fishing through the garbage for my much craved after spaghetti. The spaghetti was perfectly sealed in a plastic container, but for some reason, the fact that it was in the garbage made it gross. Like the garbage germs permeated the plastic and infected my noodles. Well, you know that song about finding a peanut? Well I “ate it anyway, ate it anyway, ate aaaaaaaaaaaaany way last night” and so far haven’t had to go to the hospital, have an operation, and so on…

My second rummage through old garbage happened yesterday. I was just about out the door from work when I realised I didn’t have my phone. I went back up to the office to get it but could not find it anywhere!

Suddenly I had an image of my poor little phone lost amongst papers, a mostly empty Starbucks cup, and a half eaten scone copiously slathered with jam, and I knew it was in the garbage. However, when I checked my bin, I realised our highly efficient cleaner (the one I was slagging off on Tuesday-oops) had already collected my garbage. I tracked him down only to discover he had already put the garbage bags out on the street for collection.

I ran to the front window, and there were the bags, still sitting on Oxford Street being sprinkled by a light rain. The cleaner ran out for them and as he came up the stairs I called my phone and sure enough I could hear one of the garbage bags ringing. So then I had to dig through the garbage (where is a little brother when you really need him!?) and lo and behold, found my little jam covered phone, filled to the brim with cold coffee. But all was not lost, I took it apart once home ( I felt very electronics savvy as I pried it open with my knitting scissors), dried it out, put it back together, and now it works fine!

Plus, now my phone has a sort of soft, but pleasing, coffee scent. Someone should market those!

So those were my garbage adventures for the week. Am really hoping not to have any more now, but knowing me, I will be in a huge dumpster Saturday night looking for my shoes or something. Sigh.

Did a little day trip out to Brighton on the south coast of England a few weekends ago. It felt SOOOO good to get away from London.  Went with my friend Lisa and the day started with typical Laurena fiasco of me setting my alarm to get up at the time at which I actually wanted to be leaving. I woke up feeling so nice and refreshed and was lolling around when my brain finally turned on and I realized I was supposed to have left 10 minutes earlier and I was still yawning and stretching in my jammies.

So after a rush job to get ready, I met Lisa and we took the train out to Brighton. The train ride was made more enjoyable by the really lovely, and really really gay, chappie beside us who jumped into our conversation about bra’s to inform us that “Marks & Spencer have a splendid selection and very reasonable prices!” He also showed us an article he was reading about how the high estrogen levels in London water were causing men to grow breasts. I was like, “Get me a glass of tap water, STAT!”  Ah the laughs. Splendid.

Brighton was nice. The pictures don’t represent it, but we did have a lovely blue sky and sun for most of the day.  We just wandered around for most of the morning having coffee and shopping.  Then we went to the highly classy and very elegant pier. That is if you think candy floss, shooting games, people with missing teeth, rickety rides, and the lingering aroma of vomit are high class. I know I do! The best part of the pier was watching these two elderly ladies dancing to the live performance of some Big Bopper song. Old ladies dancing always makes me smile.

We sat on the rocky beach a bit and I went to put my feet in the water and feel the cold salty water tickly my toes. I love rocky beaches because when the tide goes in and out it gently pushes the rocks back and forth causing this strange sound that reminds me of really loud rain.

We also sat in a park near the Pavilion (large, ornate, tacky holiday home of some former royal or rich person. I don’t really remember since I just skimmed that bit in my Lonely Planet) for a bit listening to a brass band. I have grown up listening to brass bands and I have to say sorry mom, but the Saskatoon Brass Band could not compare to this band. They were amazing.  I was almost inspired to get up an march!

And that was that.  It was a great day out. Perfect really. Can’t wait till the next one!

So for Greg’s birthday, Shan decided she wanted to surprise him with a cake and she enlisted my help.  I asked her to slyly find out what kind of cake he liked and assumed the answer would be “chocolate” or “vanilla”. Instead we discovered that Greg fancied a Honey Cake with Passion Fruit icing. Right. Simple.

Lacking my trusty rusty Purity cookbook from home (the one that is so full of flour sugar, and other baking essentials on the page of the chocolate chip cookie recipe that it opens automatically to that page every time I take the book out), I began to search the internet only to find thousands of Honey Cake recipes. I narrowed down my search to the one recipe with the least ingredients (hey I am poor, can’t be spending all my money on fancy baking stuff) and even found a recipe for Passion Fruit icing so all was going well.

On the day of Greg’s bday, Shan came over to bake the cake and then we had a BBQ.  There were two slightly rusty BBQ’s overgrown with vines and invaded by snails in my back yard, so we hauled one of those out and filled it with the charcoal and got it blazing. Well really it was a dull throb of heat, but after a few hours the food was finally kinda cooked. And really the charcoal taste was not too noticeable if you chased the food down with some wine/beer/other strong tasting beverage.

For entertainment we did Greg’s hair. Shan bought some super sticky hair cement and Greg was obliging enough to let us play around with his “do”. After much artistic flourishing, Greg’s head was adorned with a spiky do that was slightly Statue of Liberty-esque. Later when Scott joined the party, we tried to do the same for him, but his hair was much more stubborn so he just ended up with a sort of curly/messy/sticky/helmet-like look. I hear that is really hot right now.

The evening ended on a high note with me and Shan dancing around the lounge room (poor Greg has had to witness this WAY too many times) and doing our best ABBA impersonation.

So hopefully Greg enjoyed his day, cause I know I did! I mean how can you go wrong with half cooked, char flavoured meat, slightly dry Honey Cake with Passion Fruit Icing, a spiky hairdo, and wine. You can’t really!

Yesterday I experienced something I never thought I would and probably never will again: Oxford Street, quiet.

At noon yesterday all of London, as well as many other cities in the world, stood in silence to reflect on the bombings here last Thursday.

I was at work as normal, and a few minutes before noon we locked up and went out onto the street. Already there were hundreds of people congregating on the sidewalk and the stores were becoming empty as the street filled up.  Then at 12 o’clock, the buses stopped where they were, and the stores shut of their music, and all that was left was silence and the chime of a distant church bell.

I stood on the edge of the sidewalk, right along the street and could feel a soft breeze go past.  There was not a sound on this street that is normally deafening with its constant roar of buses, honking horns, screaming sirens, music, talking, yelling, and laughing. We all stood and stared at each other in a sad and reflective way. The silence was powerful. I watched a girl wipe away tears as she stood on the top floor of one of the halted buses.  I just closed my eyes for a bit and let the breeze run past my face and listened to nothing.

Then as a signal to us all that it was time to get back to our lives and to go on as normal, H&M turned back on their music and Gwen Sefanie sang to us, “whatcha waiting, whatcha waiting, whatcha waiting, whatcha waiting fooooooor!” and with that the silence was instantly eliminated and everyone went back to the way they had been two minutes earlier. By the time I was back up in my office looking out onto Oxford Street, everyone had returned to their shopping, talking, and laughing and it was like nothing had ever happened. We all shared that moment in time, we took it in and then let it go, but in the back of our memories it will always be there, and it connects us all. I am thankful I was one of the living who were able to take part in it.