*Jess sings* For I'm a jolly good fellow, for I'm a jolly good fellow, for I'm a jolly good fellow, and so say all of me, and so say all of me, and so say all of me, for I'm a jolly good fellow, for I'm a jolly good fellow, for I'm a jolly good feeeeelllooooooow... which nobody can deny.

Phew, I made it to the end of NaBloPoMo in one piece. It was a lot harder than last year. I was more organised this year as I'd brain-stormed and drafted a few posts before November began. You'd think this would make it easier, but being prepared with some quality material raised the bar for all of my other posts. This year I feel like I managed to make most of my posts quality entries. (I think there is only one filler post.)

I'd like to thank the people behind the scenes, specifically my husband Andrew. He proof read all 30 of my posts. (He always checks my posts. I tend to make a lot of mistakes). He put up with my whinging about having to post everyday (when clearly I was the only one to blame.) And, he's really, really, good-looking.

And of course, I'd like to thank you, my readers. Thanks for sticking it out through November. I hope you were slightly entertained and not put off by all those words.

We're off to Prague this weekend for a well-deserved mini-break. (Who am I kidding! We don't really deserve it, but we're going to take it anyway.)

FuShMuSh resumes normal transmission...

After our visit to Auschwitz – Birkenau we were left with one overwhelming question – "Why?" How could anyone have such capacity for hatred? How did people let this happen? I can't understand how anyone could treat another human being in this manner.

Six million Jews were murdered in the holocaust. During our visit, our guide never once used the word "executed". Execute implies a legal process; a punishment for a crime committed. Our guide always used the term "murder", for that's what it was.

Over a million of that figure died at Auschwitz – Birkenau. One million is just a number though. At Auschwitz they try and quantify that number. They want you to realise that one million means one million individual victims.

One building, named Crimes Against Humanity, houses some objects which belonged to victims of the gas chambers. A room about 30m long, filled with shoes. Piles of suitcases marked with names and addresses. A display case filled with human hair. Hair that was sent to Germany to be turned into cloth or rope.

Along the corridors of the building hang pictures the Nazis took to identify the prisoners who were used as slave labour. Each photo has the date of arrival at Auschwitz and a date of death. The longest period between these two dates is a year. The most common break is a few months. Every photo has a date of death.

The worst is the photos of the children. You can see that the children, some look only six years old, are holding back tears. You want to discover that there was someone to rescue and comfort them. That they survived. But no, they too were worked until they died from exhaustion.

Walking through the camp, we were bitterly cold. We were freezing wearing three layers of clothing, a beanie, a scarf and a pair of gloves. The prisoners at Auschwitz were clothed in thin cotton.

The saddest thing is that you leave Auschwitz thinking "that could never happen again". But you know you're wrong. Such hatred still exists in the world. Our evidence? The Killing Fields of Cambodia. The Rwandan Genocide. Srebrenica Massacre. September 11. 7/7 London Bombings.

"It happened, therefore it can happen again: this is the core of what we have to say." -- Primo Levi, writer, holocaust survivor.

Now that I've finished with Italy, it's time to move on to Poland.

A couple of weekends ago we squeezed in a mini-break to Krakow. We arrived on the Friday evening, visited Auschwitz and the Wieliczka Salt mine on the Saturday, explored the old town during the day on Sunday and flew home that evening.

Snow
As I had previously blogged, the forecast for Krakow for the weekend had predicted snow. Andrew and I were a little bit excited about hanging out in the snow. We've only experienced snow on skiing holidays, so it's still a novelty for us.

(Last year we had 1.5 days of snow in London. Of course, Hollywood always depicts London as covered in snow in the winter time. Whenever I see this in a film I always yell "Liars!" at the screen. Andrew always says "Jess, they can't hear you." )

We weren't disappointed. Krakow was covered in snow. It was pretty! On our drive out in the countryside it was a pleasure to look out the windows of the bus at the scenery. Snow makes everything look beautiful.

It was very cold though. The temperature didn't top zero degrees while we were there. We both were wearing twice as many layers as usual, but were still cold. I was wearing hiking boots + thermal socks ++ thermal leggings + jeans ++ long sleeved merino thermal top + t-shirt + bonds hoodie + overcoat. I also wore gloves, a beanie and a scarf. I took my scarf and wrapped it around my neck, and the bottom-half of my face. The only part of me that wasn't covered was my eyes.

So maybe I'm cheating a little on this one. I love living near Notting Hill because it reminds me of home. At home, every third weekend or so, Andrew and I would head out for brunch. Sometimes we would brunch with the oldies in Pyrmont. Sometimes we'd catch up with Annie and the boys at Bitton or Café Sofia in Erskineville. Sometimes it would be a fushie affair and we'd head to Succulent on King St, Newtown. We were spoiled for choice.

In March of this year, I was particularly homesick and depressed. It was mainly because of my horrible job. But maybe a tiny part of my malaise could have been attributed to the area we were living. Shepherds Bush has a distinct lack of restaurants and cafes. To be precise, we were not able to find a cafe at which we could eat brunch on the weekend. By brunch I mean fluffy poached eggs and crispy bacon. Not the greasy fried eggs and fatty bacon available at most greasy spoons.

Now that we're living near Notting Hill, all is changed. We don't have four cafes to pick from, but at least we have one good brunch spot. We have Tom's Deli which is only a 10 minute walk away. Tom's has a fantastic brunch menu. I order scrambled eggs, parma ham and roasted tomatoes and Andrew has the veggie breakfast. Their service is usually good, as long as they aren't too busy.

(Unfortunately, they are always busy. There is a reason why they are so popular. Tom's is good. It's also interesting to note that most of the wait staff are Aussies. Australians know good service.)

There really is nothing better than waking up on the weekend and wandering up Portobello road for brunch with my favourite boy. We eat a leisurely brekkie, drink coffee and catch up on the week. We stroll home, sometimes we browse the markets, sometimes we head home for a nap. It's the perfect start to a lazy day.

(I do still miss brunch with my family. I'll just have to wait until April next year when Mum and Dad can join in our London brunch routine.)


*G* this is a very dinky post, isn't it? Children are starving in Africa, global warming is going to destroy the earth and my state of mind is dependent on poached eggs. Shallow Jess! Must do something good for the world today to make up for this post.

Isn't it nice when other people organise things? I've had "See a Football Game in England" on my list of things to do since last winter. I was able to check it off my list this weekend care of Cath and Nik. We were invited along to watch the Fulham vs. Blackburn game at Craven Cottage to celebrate Nik's birthday.

I couldn't call myself a football fan. However, I find that a sport is more interesting and more exciting when you actually go and see it played live. Being there, a part of the crowd, is always lots of fun. I'm sure I wouldn't be a cricket fan if I hadn't watched a series of a very exciting NSW one day matches when I was a teenager. I have a greater appreciation for basketball, after I was lucky enough to see a Lakers game at the Staples Center in LA on a business trip. I'm even open to ice hockey after being introduced to the sport last year by John and Leah when we tagged along to watch a game in Slovakia.

So, not being a football fan means I only have a vague grasp of the rules. Kick the ball into the goal to score a point... got it. Not allowed to touch the ball with your hands... got it. The offside rule? That is when the French mustard has to between the teriyaki sauce and the sea salt (a gold star if you can pick the quote.)

We entered the football stadium through the world's narrowest doorway and made our way to our seats which were three rows back from the sideline and quite close to one of the goals. It was a great vantage point from which to appreciate the game.

We picked up some typical football munchies, a pie and some crisps, on the way to our seats. You'd think a beer would round this out nicely, but football fans aren't granted that privilege. (Cricket fans are allowed to drink full-strength beer in the stands. Football fans are only allowed to drink beer at the bars behind the stands before the game starts and at half-time. It is illegal to be in possession of alcohol within view of the pitch.)

The game was quite exciting. I had been worried that we might end up watching a nil-all draw. But happily, goals were scored (and a penalty). Unfortunately, the match was a 2-2 draw. I think Fulham were lucky with that result as they seemed to be outclassed for most of the game and played a lot of defence. (That's my very authoritative opinion.)

It was a fun experience but I'm still not sure that I'm ready to be a football fan. For a few reasons:

• I cannot stand all the diving that happens in football. I've never seen a bigger bunch of wusses. Rolling around clutching a body part because they think they can get a penalty. Most of the time they'd hardly been touched by the opposing player. It really is an unattractive quality in a man.
  
  
• The fans were a bit iffy as well. We sat with the home crowd, and they were quite active, cheering, clapping and stamping throughout the game. But some fans were slightly aggressive. Instead of enthusiastically supporting their team they'd yell negative comments. When Fulham scored a goal, it wasn't "yay! Go Fulham!" it was "it's about bloody time." We had one family seated behind us that was particularly bad. The husband was yelling and the wife screeching. The saddest thing was their young son joining in and sounding like a smaller version of his dad. What a wonderful role model that man is for his son.
  
  
• Football is just too tense a game for me. The ball is played back and forth and there are so many attempts at goal that are not realised. Sometimes a whole game can be played with a no goals being scored. My theory behind football hooliganism is that fans are just releasing all that tension. Either that or the sport just attracts yobbos *G*.
  
  

Happy Birthday Nik! Thanks for letting us tag along.


More photos on Flickr...