From Jungle Boy to Carrot Cake Girl

When I was about 6 years old one of my friends had a fancy dress party - the theme was Disney characters. All of the girls were princesses - Snow White, Cinderella, The Little Mermaid and so on. I went as Mowgli. All I wore was a pair of red pants..... I didn't need to do anything else as I was virtually identical to Mowgli anyway. Obviously I couldn't get away with that nowadays....as I'm clearly not as Mowgli-esque as I once was...!! However I suppose what I am trying to say is that I wasn't always high maintenence. I think people have the view that as a child I must have been the one always dressed as a princess, wearing butterfly wings, covered in sparkly things and obsessed with Barbie. Not the case. In fact I was always the kid with two grazed knees, twigs in my hair and an insect in a box somewhere ready to fry with a magnifying glass. My love of sparkly things developed over time and it wasn't until I was in my teens that my love of fashion and beauty flourished, and even then a 2-year goth / rock stage set me back temporarily!

I'd go so far as to say that fashion & beauty is a hobby of mine. In fact, I love everything that is fabulous - clothes, cosmetics, shoes, jewellery, sparkly drinks, roses, perfumes, chandeliers, sports cars, fairy cakes (to look at more than to eat - I prefer the taste of sausages to be honest, though they look less fabulous.... sometimes.). So I suppose rather than a fashionista, I am a fabulista - a lover and connoiseur of all things fabulous!

My idea of bliss is a Sunday afternoon on the sofa or in the pub with a stack of glossy magazines full of new ideas and products from the worlds of clothes, cosmetics, homewares, accessories, holidays and style, my laptop open to asos.com and a nicely pre-allocated budget for spending! I'm not one of these people who will spend £800 on a handbag when I could fill my summer suitcase for the same amount and look just as good - if not better (since when did a handbag ever enhance my bum, make me taller or give me a great cleavage?!) So it's not about buying the most expensive of anything, but buying what suits me and what I know I will get a good deal of use out of. Take my blue & white nautical striped skinny top. It's from New Look and cost me £12. I have had it for about 3 years and it is probably the most versatile piece of clothing I own. It can be glammed up with a pair of skinny jeans and heels, dressed down with a pair of bootcuts and trainers, turned into office-wear with a navy blue pencil skirt and neckscarf, worn on holiday with a pair of white hotpants and wedges. It can be long sleeved, short sleeved, sexy or demure - it all depends on how it's worn and what it is worn with. I love that about clothes & cosmetics.

However, in my move to Switzerland I have come up against a bit of a problem. Here to be a fabulista you have to be rich - and that's not what it's all about!  In fact that takes away most of the fun, not to mention the skill! There are none of the middle-of-the-road high street stores that I would frequent in London. Here you are either faced with the high-end designer boutiques (Chanel, LV, Burberry, Prada and so on) where nothing, not even a sock, costs less than 500 francs, OR those awful pikey clothes stores where everything is 'one-size-fits-all' (what so if you suddenly balloon in weight you don't have to buy a new wardrobe?  Petite to Maternity in one easy outfit?) and made out of highly flammable material (possibly so it can be easily chucked on a bonfire). With the exception of 3 shops (Zara, Mango and H&M) there are absolutely no trendy high street stores in this city. I'm talking Oasis, Warehouse, Next, Miss Selfridge, M&S, TopShop, Primark, Dorothy Perkins. As for the shoes?!! Don't get me started. Unless you want to wear a pair of clumpy stack-heeled sensible shoes or spend thousands on designer footwear then there aint nothing for you here.  LK Bennet, Nine West, Dune, Office.... where are they?! These are companies that are massively missing out on a market here in Switzerland and I am fast starting to think that Sir Philip Green needs to get his act together and start moving some of his empire over here pronto. There's a market and it's untapped. And the fact that anything ordered in from overseas gets subjected to a big, fat, customs bill makes online shopping a non-viable alternative unfortunately.

Anyway rant over.  Enough of that. It's too frustrating a subject, and boring too I'm sure. So, there's probably no one reading this anymore. Fuckshitbollocks..... sorry, just checking you were still there. Blame it on the selective-Tourettes. On a much more exciting note, Dan and I went on a week's holiday last week. We jetted off to Djerba which is an island off the coast of Tunisia that has no direct flights from England meaning we were the only English people there which was utter bliss - not that I don't like English people (obviously), I just don't want to be on holiday with hundreds of them seeing as I spend all of my time with them anyway despite living in another country - expat syndrome - and sometimes its good to get away from all that signifies home.  Anyway, despite the lack of English tourists, we did meet a lovely couple of English kiteboard instructors that lived over there and who took us under their wing for the last couple of days. And just to prove that we aren't stereotypical Brits, we ended up in a nightclub with them playing 'who can do the shittest, most embarrassing dance ever in the middle of the club?' while we videoed each other and drank shots of Sambuca before making our way back to the hotel, paralytic in a taxi with no seatbelts (or brakes apparently) driven by the love-child of Nigel Mansell and a blind, old, senile Tunisian nomad.

Anyway, the main reason I like being surrounded by people who can't speak English is because I can openly comment on them by the pool without them being any the wiser. Luckily my other half has the same holiday pastime. Our daily poolside conversations went something like this:

D: Uuggggh - look at that guy's moobs
Me: That's a woman - she's just very hairy
D: Oh yeah. Urrrrgh!
Me: Look at that guy there - he talks like he's deaf!
D: he is deaf
Me: Oh yeah. Look at him right next to you- he's so pasty he looks like Caspar the ghost
D: Haha - Oi, Caspar! (turns to me and chuckles)
Caspar (who is actually from Essex): Oi, 'ow do you know my name. I'll 'ave you!

...and so it went on, for a blissful 7 days. The only non blissful bit was being abducted by a Tunisian taxi driver (not Nomad Mansell this time) who decided (without telling us) that he was going to be our guide for the day and not take us to the place we'd asked to go, but instead to a traditional Tunisian ceramic mine. Sound interesting? Well, it was apart from the fact that a giant maingy camel crept up behind me and licked my neck just as we got there and I'd forgotten to bring any wet-wipes, and then I mistakenly agreed to 'have look in mine, have look in mine, follow, follow' and ended up between the guide and Dan, in an underground hole not even big enough to stand up in, which we got to along a long tunnel with no daylight, and when we arrived the guide lit a giant torch which illuminated the tiny coffin-like space, with nothing but an axe leaning against the wall, at which point he picked it up, stuck it in my face and said 'this is what we use to.....' at which point I literally legged it (in a scrambling / falling kind of way) along the pitch black tunnel, milliseconds away from a hysterical screaming, crying panic attack and didn't stop until I'd managed to climb to daylight. I could feel that Dan was following closely behind but when I turned round, bottom lip shaking, tears-gates about to open to check he was ok after our near-death ordeal it transpired that he was actually just trying very hard not to laugh. He did a good job though. I suppose there was an element of fear that if he did guffaw in my face I'd be back down that mine to retrieve the axe.

Anyway, the reason we went on holiday is because it was my final week of being a hausfrau, which means I have now officially started my new job. Today I became the new girl. It was surprisingly painless, and my long-lost sense of purpose was restored by the time I was halfway to work, morning newspaper tucked under my arm (never mind that I can't actually read the bloody thing - I just look at the pictures...), take-away coffee in hand, being carried along amongst the throng of daily commuters.  The working people of Zurich. I literally had a spring in my step. (I'm sure by next week I'll be missing my tracksuit and the Kardashians a bit but it will be short-lived I'm sure..) I also discovered the perfect way to get people to like you when you start a new job.   I had promised to bake Dan a carrot cake yesterday - my last hausfrau day, so I made an extra one and took it into the office today. 'BROWN NOSE!' I hear you cry, and yes, perhaps I am a bit. But I tell you what - I wasn't just 'the new girl' after that... I was, and will always be 'the girl who brought the carrot cake in' and thanks to my culinary genius of a mother, my carrot cakes (even if I do say so myself) are pretty damn divine. There wasn't a cake-crumb-free face in the building today.  And if anyone asked me a question I didn't quite know how to answer (in that 'oh, there's a new girl who has already been bombarded with random questions all day, I'll just go and ask her another one' way) I could easily deflect them with a simple "hello, have you tried my home made carrot cake yet?" instead of answering it, or at least buy myself a bit of time to come up with a semi-suitable answer.

So there you have it. That's my news for the moment. I will keep you posted on how the job pans out and all that jazz. Til the next time anyways fellow fabulistas. XOXO

“I don't believe in the Republican party or the Democratic party. I just believe in parties" Samantha Jones; Sex & the City

On Saturday night we, along with my parents hosted a Bring Your Best Dish Buffet Party at our house.  Our motives were of course to get together with friends and have a fun evening, however the appeal of having people turning up with their best, most painstakingly composed dishes, spurred on by the element of competition and leaving us with tons of leftovers to feed us for a week did cross our minds too if I'm honest, though I was rather over-optimistic on the leftovers - there weren't many at all! We also decided to open our doors to the offspring of our friends, which was a decision I feared initially (moments after I'd committed to it!), but that turned out to be a great success.  A few toddler friendships were formed and one budding romance between a couple of 5-year-olds - the extent of my matchmaking success so far!  No parents having to cut their evening short to go and relieve the babysitter, no pre-occupied friends worrying about the kids at home, and most of all the added dimension of having children happily running about, making friends, bringing along their own contributions to the party, and falling into a cupcake induced coma in front of The Jungle Book to leave the grown-ups to party on.

I feel I have stepped over an invisible line all of a sudden.  At what point do we start hosting grown-up food-related parties with so little debauchery that children can be present without any long-term mental or physical damage?  Not so long ago a house party would have involved a bunch of rowdy youths (the fact I even called them that says a lot...)!, complaints from neighbours, a visit from the police, hot-rock burns in the sofas, the bathtub overflowing with beer cans, puke in plant-pots, graffiti on the bathroom mirror, gatecrashers aplenty, someone crying (always), people making out in the bedrooms and the only food on offer would have been munchy-fodder for the stoners - mixing-bowls filled with Wotsits and M&Ms.   Don't get me wrong, I am totally and utterly over those days - fun as they were, and was a host and guest at more than my fair share of them in the past.  How refreshing to only have to clean a small, chocolate handprint off the sofa cover the next day, instead of an unconscious, naked human.

One massive difference between hosting a party here and hosting one in the UK is that in Switzerland EVERYONE turns up on time!  Literally one minute I am there putting a 20th, and final spritz of hairspray on, and a minute later there are 25 people in the living room, a table full of food, kids running themselves into utter exhaustion & a party in full-swing - none of the awkward, quiet bit when only one person has arrived, and you have to make chit-chat when you have one eye on the oven, another on the bbq, and the party music that is playing just seems ridiculously inappropriate for an accompaniment to 4 people standing in a living room talking about the weather.  In addition, here everyone that says they will turn up, turns up (which despite being detrimental to the leftovers was very nice!) 

Entertainment is my thing - it's my profession of course but it's also my passion and if I could host an event every single week I'd be happy as a pig in poop.  Weddings, dinners, parties, you name it.  I have managed to make a successful career out of party planing for a very long time, so I decided to share my wisdom with you in the form of my 3 Top Tips for Successful Events:

1) If anything goes wrong, LIE!:  If something is burning in the oven, something isn't working as it should be, your whole plan of events has gone tits-up - my most important point would be to do whatever it takes (run into the kitchen and cry, SCREAM, punch something, stuff 3 cupcakes into your mouth, smoke a cigarette, D.I.O a triple vodka) but once you turn to your guests your face must be wearing your best smile, and an expression that shows NO hint of panic whatsoever.  Generally if people don't know there was meant to be a firework display timed to explode along to the Final Countdown, then they won't care if it doesn't happen.  This is a learning from my many years as an event manager in a couple of very large high-end investment banks - I've had an A list speaker drop down with a heart attack minutes before going on stage, I had a 150 starters thrown in the bin due to possible contamination moments before they were due to be served at a gala dinner, I've had a very senior and well known client on the verge of closing a huge deal ask me to assist in his decision by offering him hand relief!, I've had another A-list celebrity turn up to speak absolutely off her face on cocaine!  I have been a nanny, a bouncer, a chef, a paramedic, a speaker, a limo driver and even a lighting rigger at one point.  But ultimately as an event manager the biggest role you play is one of actress.  It is not a glamorous affair believe me, and it is not about BEING calm and composed at all times, it is about LOOKING calm and composed at all times to inspire the required confidence in your guests.

2) Introduce like-minded people: Yes I sound like Bridget Jones saying this ('Perpetua, meet Mr Tits-pervert'), but it's so true. Inviting people that you have already matched up in terms of likes, dislikes, common interests, mutual friends and so on can really work in your favour, and there's nothing more satisfying than introducing people, highlighting the common ground and then watching their conversation flourish and them become firm friends. Yes I know I am only talking about two 5-year-olds who both have a penchant for Spongebob Squarepants, but hey, it worked a treat! Thanks Bridget. Seriously though, your guest list is very important - I don't mean everyone should be specially selected and pre-screened, just that if you have friends that you know would hit it off together, there's no harm in a bit of premeditation!

3) Fake it: If there's one thing I have learned in the last couple of years, when the economy was falling apart and the budgets for events in the business world were literally reduced by 60 to 70% - its amazing what you can replace with a cheaper option - people pretend they will only settle for the real thing - but invariably do not know what that is.....even the most high-end of clients (who are usually the least hard-work!) Taking the business learnings and applying them to your own world - replace champagne with prosecco or even Cava - guaranteed after the first glass no one will know the difference, make your own cocktails using cheap vodka and supermarket juice, make 'finger-food' so that nobody needs to use a plate, knife or fork!, do what we did and theme the event as a 'bring your own' - hell, use Aldi's own brand ketchup instead of Heinz - who is going to know if it's in a bite-sized burger?  DJs are more or less redundant - in fact a playlist of your best party songs is infinitely more pleasurable than a muppet has-been trying to re-live his youth who can't get a gig in a club so instead tries to inflict 'A Higher State of Consciousness' on a bunch of 5-year-olds and their mums and dads who experienced the delights of Josh Wink and Abba-Gabba (still both classics of course)15 years ago when punching glow-sticks and chewing your own face off were the primary objectives of a party.  Nobody cares if you've cut costs here and there - as long as they are having fun. 

To end this post I want to leave you with some of my all-time favourite quotes about glamour, food & drink, partying, having fun & a couple that just make me smile every time I read them!:

"I only drink Champagne when I'm happy, and when I'm sad. Sometimes I drink it when I'm alone. When I have company I consider it obligatory. I trifle with it if I am not hungry and drink it when I am. Otherwise I never touch it - unless I'm thirsty"
Lily Bollinger

“Glamour is what makes a man ask for your telephone number. But it also is what makes a woman ask for the name of your dressmaker.”
Lilly Dache

“At every party there are two kinds of people - those who want to go home and those who don't. The trouble is, they are usually married to each other.”
Ann Landers

"I call everyone 'Darling' because I can't remember their names."
Zsa Zsa Gabor

“I feel sorry for people who don’t drink. When they wake up in the morning, that’s as good as they’re going to feel all day.”
Frank Sinatra

“I'm thinking balls are to men what purses are to women. It's just a little bag, but we feel naked in public without it.”
Carrie Bradshaw - Sex & the City

“When women are depressed they either eat or go shopping. Men invade another country.”
Elayne Boosler

“All right, brain, I don’t like you and you don’t like me – so let’s just do this and I’ll get back to killing you with beer”
Homer Simpson

“You men have no idea what we're dealing with down there. Teeth placement, and jaw stress, and suction, and gag reflex, and all the while bobbing up and down, moaning and trying to breathe through our noses. Easy? Honey, they don't call it a job for nothin'.”
Samantha Jones- Sex & the City

Springli has Sprüngli

So, today I am sitting out on the terrace, in 18˚C!  Spring has definitely sprung and all of a sudden this country has shot up in my estimations.  Its like winter ends and the Swiss dust off the outdoor furniture, roll out the pretty awnings, take the lid off the lake, the rooves off their cars, the ski wear off themselves (finally!) and the whole place just feels a whole lot more cosmopolitan, holiday-like, glamorous and sparkly!  I love it - I had to stop myself donning my neon yellow string bikini today!  After all I am in the middle of the city, on a work day, in full view of a main road..... but if it gets any warmer and more summery than this it's only a matter of time! 

Being a cross-breed (and I am allowed to say that about myself before you get all PC on me!), I am blessed with a 'tan-switch' - at the first peek of sun, I just step outside and within an instant I am tanned.  This is good in some ways - no endless hours of sunbathing required.  However it can cause problems - today when I returned after a short trip outdoors to the grocery shop, I heard a noise as I was putting my key in the door, and turned round to find a crowd of the neighbours wondering what the strange Arabian woman was doing breaking into my house.  Once Mr Grübly had been called and I'd shown him my boobs he let me back in (its the only way he could recognise me you see, after the laundry room incident).  Don't get me wrong - it's not that there's no diversity here- just a lot less than in Streatham, so I am something of a minority, especially in my immediate neighbourhood!  It's fine with me - anything that helps me be the centre of attention is welcome! (cue neon yellow bikini).

Tonight I am going to a book club with some 'ladies'.  I say 'ladies' rather than girls because they all have husbands, big cars and children.  I have none of these things, but am working on all 3 (well, in a certain order anyway).   Does this mean I have been accepted into the elite group of the Swiss Expat Wives?  I believe it does!  This is cause for celebration.  I have never been to a book club before - I always thought they were just a front for women who wanted to get together and do tequila shots, play poker and get the Anne Summers lady round without their husbands knowing.  But I have been told that we are definitely going to talk about a book.  Maybe it's the Anne Summers catalogue....  either way, I am very excited as this really is a milestone.  Just short of 6 months in Switzerland and I am UP THERE with the creme de la creme.  I might wear my tiara.

This week we also decided to get a dog, which is fantastic as I am a big fan of canine company (you can tell them anything and they'll never ever utter a word of it to anyone!)  You can use them as a blankie, cushion or even a hanky when you're watching a weepie film...(ok did I say that out loud?)  The problem we have is that I would be happy with one of those dogs that most men think of as rodents - a chihuahua or a miniature pug or any little ball of fluff with a face.  I'd even have one of those mini teacup pigs!  (though I do worry that I'd come home drunk from the pub one night and eat it.  A bit of honey & mustard glaze on one of those babies, 30 minutes at 200˚C. mmmmmm.)  But of course we can't get a miniature dog as they aren't manly enough, nor can we get a big dog, or one that is too energetic as we don't have THAT much space.  So at the moment we have pretty much agreed that a Basset Hound would be the ideal, lazy, loveable, slightly stupid yet very cute pet.  It probably won't fit in my handbag (not all of them anyway), but I can live with that.  So our small family of two is soon to grow to 3, and I will no longer be the ditziest one of the lot (I hope!  Though I do have visions of Dan teaching the Basset Hound how to play FIFA on the PS3 get him a beer from the fridge.  I'll have to teach it how to pedicure...)

I've been so overwhelmed with the onset of spring, and being surrounded by Easter paraphernalia everywhere I look (the Swiss LOVE Easter!) that I actually ate a chocolate rabbit today.  This is VERY weird for me, as unlike most women I am not a fan of chocolate, at all.  However, living in the land of chocolate, having been given a chocolate rabbit as an Easter gift, trying to embrace my new found culture (and frankly being hormonal), I made a chocolate breakthrough today, and actually thoroughly enjoyed it.  However I am not going to get used to it, because if any of my other tastes are an indication, it would only be a matter of time before only the most expensive chocolate would do.  Considering a 10 inch high chocolate rabbit in Sprüngli costs 189 CHF, I think I'll steer clear of developing a new fetish...

On that note I need to cut this one short!  Or I'll be late for book club!  Til the next time homies. xxx

I can't climb a mountain in my Louboutins....!

Yesterday I walked 14km - and part of it up a mountain....  Now - that in itself isn't a phenomenon - I'm used to hard exercise - usually in the form of a gruelling 1-hour hardcore session, 3 times a week with my personal trainer back in Streatham, who'd put me through my paces like a Royal Sergeant Major BUT in the comfort of my Virgin Gym, where there were no random deer staring at  me from the sidelines, or 80-year old men running (yes RUNNING) past me when I am half way up a steep mountain, thinking I'm on a par with Sir Ranulph Fiennes because I've managed to go a km without a snack.  Actually it was remarkably easy, and next time someone tells me they have climbed a mountain I'll be a lot less impressed than I used to be!

However, I am caught in something of a dilemma when it comes to 'dressing for the climb'..... I come from the school of thought that it doesn't do any harm to look the best you can when indulging in any activity - be it running, climing, bobsleigh, shot-put, sky diving, shopping or doing the housework... its ok to make an effort!!  One thing I have noticed since being here is that people (the women in particular) dress for comfort rather than fashion.  DON'T get me wrong - I know (now) that you can't climb a mountain in Louboutins (believe me though, if you could, I would...) and my wet-look leggings haven't made an appearance since I've been here.... but there is a happy medium and it is possible to be groomed, wear nice clothes and look feminine even if you are about to embark on a hike.  The men here manage to do it very well - they look great at all times, whether its in the office, in the pub, on the slopes or halfway up a mountain.  The Swiss Banker look (and salary) really does work - whatever the occasion, trend or season.  But the women just can't seem to get it right - you're either faced with BOBFOC (Body of Baywatch, Face of Crimewatch) when a tall, skinny chick with an amazing figure appears in front of you in a queue, and you're just starting to feel the heart-stabbing pangs of jealousy, and then they turn around and either have a face like Jimmy Saville on a bad day, or one that has been lifted so high that they must have had to get a 'hollywood' on their chin.... 

Either that or they just succumb to the housewife/frumpy/stay-at-home lifestyle and let themselves go to the point that when you do see them (albeit not very often) with the aforementioned banker husband, they look like they're the housekeeper allowed out on on a rare day away from scrubbing floors.  The funny thing is that I have never ever in my life seen so many hairdressers and beauty salons per square foot than I have here.... WHO GOES TO THEM?  Maybe the men?!  I finally realised why, (back in around 1990 when it was slightly popular among teenagers in the UK) there was suddenly a shortage of that awful 'cherry red' DIY hair dye which never really returned.  Did it die out forever?  Was it proven to be dangerously full of E numbers or chemicals?  Was it so unpopular that it couldn't sell (you'd think...)!  but no..... it was all being shipped over here!  To serve the women of Zurich for the next millennium....  and don't even get me started on the mullets.... .  I'd bet that you're as likely to see 'Red Mullet' here on a hairdresser's price list as you are in a seafood restaurant!

Luckily my impending unemployment has meant that I have avoided clothes shops for the most part, but a week or so ago (see previous post) it became prevalent that I was in dire need of a new black jumper so I had no choice but to venture out to find one.  I was aghast (but also relieved in the short term) to find that 'good quality affordable high street stores' do not exist here.  I had to choose between spending 2500 francs on a beautiful, perfectly cut, cashmere Chanel black polo neck, or going to BIG (yes this really is a clothes store - the male version being BIG BOYZ) for a misshapen equivalent that was made of a material that would have rendered me a fire hazard had I gone within a km of a naked flame.  It seems to be that the wealthy women of Switzerland (which is pretty much all of them) progress from wearing nothing but cheap tat and flammable acrylic until they hit 50 at which point they have so much botox that if they cracked a smile (not that many of them would) they'd split their face, and then make up for the years of not buying decent clothes by hitting the designer gear so hard that they adorn themselves in so much of it, all at once, at all times.....  It just is not attractive to see every possible logo, insignia and monogram draped on one person, all at the same time, who can barely walk because they are weighed down by the layers and lashings of gold, leather and fur, and whose husband has already run off with the secretary anyway - because even acrylic is more fetching than BOBFOC (as long as she's kept away from the fire)....

Now - don't get me wrong when I say the guys always get it right... Yes they seem to make more of an effort and generally know how to groom themselves to a higher standard, BUT white jeans, over-gelled hair, pastel over-the-shoulder sweaters and a serious air of arrogance and one-upmanship can be very off-putting.  Not to mention the fact that a Porsche here is as common as a red double decker bus in London and to be honest I'd rather be hopping onto a 133 bus in Streatham, knowing the only sacrifice would be £1 off my trusty Oyster card, rather than a mind numbingly boring journey to work with a mind numbingly boring, overly fragranced, hair-gelled-to-lego-head, pastel jumper wearing playboy whose only large appendage is his Gucci man-bag....

Needless to say, my initial fears that I'd arrive here, in my soon-to-be-unemployed status, to be the only female that can't afford to look good in a world of designer-dressed beauties, were short lived.  Beauty really is only skin deep, but moreso when the skin is one's own, and in the same (or thereabouts) part of the body that it was intended to be in......  Style on the other hand, is something that needs a bit more work in these parts of the world.  Anon...!

Highs (heels) and Lows (income)...

I promised myself when I started this blog that I'd write about the lows as well as the highs.  When I decided to pack up and start a new life, the one thing that I knew was inevitable was that there would be some really fantastic times, but that there would be some really low points too.

So, yesterday I hit a low. 4 weeks in, and the honeymoon is over!  The impending unemployment, the inability to understand a word that people are saying, the strange surroundings, the remoteness from friends and family, and the total and utter isolation have all finally hit me, like a giant slap in the face - all at once!  No gradual slide  / slow burn / easy entry into it - just a great big rude awakening all at once!

My (probably unrealistic) positivity that I'd arrive in Switzerland, descend the steps of my learjet (never mind that we drove) - hair blowing in the (non-frizz-inducing) Swiss air, all glitz and glamour, and make such a great impression that the first person I met would fall at their feet to offer me a fantastic, high-flying job with an amazing salary and a sports car to go with it.....hasn't quite panned out the way it did in my (clearly over-active) imagination.  Add to that the fact that my 'I'll pick it up in an instant' attitude towards the German (not to mention Swiss German?!) language was totally unfounded... and I'm amazed I lasted this long without falling hard and fast into the pit of 'why? how? when? what?!' questions that I am now starting to ask myself. 

'Its only natural' I keep telling myself (as do my friends) but that doesn't really ease the mental pain when I find myself desperately longing for a hooded, limping gangster of St. Reatham to slam into me in the street, spit at my feet and mug the nearest pensioner just to give me a glimmering taste of home...

4 weeks in an office where the most I've spoken is to myself, in the loo when I had to give myself a talking to after bursting into tears at my desk when I received a parcel from friends in London filled with all of my favourite things - gossip magazines (with D list celebrities I've actually heard of in them), books (in English!), M&S Bucks Fizz (I know, I know...) etc. I think the lowest point came after a day at work in the silent office, having been rejected for a job I could have done standing on my head (and would have, given half the chance), walking home in the pouring rain (because the buses only go every 30 mins after 4pm and I can't afford a cab)... to find myself watching 3 hours of German TV (seriously - 'enders in German?!), wearing a jumper with holes in it (because I can't afford a new jumper), drinking cheap beer out of a can (ditto champagne), eating the Swiss version of Peperami (because they don't have real Peperami here),  and wondering where the fairytale life was that I'd given MY fairytale life up for.... maybe I'll find it tomorrow....