5riday on my mind

So I have to tell you something.

I've found another blog-site. It's tumblr.

This is difficult, but I must be honest - things just seem to work with us.

I hope you can understand.

If you want to visit me, my new address is www.5riday.tumblr.com

So long Frankie-speak. I hope our paths will cross in the future.

Love xx

Market Knowledge

 I had this story posted on www.shegoes.com.au about a month ago. I'm only adding it here now because 1. I'm really lazy and 2. Well, I didn't want my own blog to think I'd forgotten it....
So here it is - Enjoy!

Ask any op-shop lover and they’ll tell you London’s markets are treasure-troves. And you should believe them – once you step foot into one of these super-sized trinket boxes, you’ll never see Balmain’s weekend markets in the same way. These markets are the havens of hoarders, hagglers and trendy-types alike; lining streets with all things vintage, crafty and kitsch.
During my time in London, most of my weekends were spent roaming about the city’s best known markets.  I went out and visited spots with world-class reputations and consulted my trusty Lonely Planet Guide for tips on sites that were a little less notorious.
So here are my thoughts on a few that stood out:



Camden Lock: Biggest. Disappointment. Ever.
People rave on about this market, and like most things with phenomenal reputations, it did not live up to the hype. I was expecting Neverland and what I got was more like Jamberoo. Sure there were nice stalls, but I saw the same nice key-rings and nice printed tees over and over again. It was huge, kind of dirty, and way too congested.
Best Buy: A virgin Pina Colada that came in a pineapple with a mini umbrella poking out of it.

Portobello: Maybe it was because I loved Notting Hill, but I got a fuzzy feeling in my stomach when I saw the stalls set in front of those brightly-coloured houses. I half expected to see Hugh Grant strolling to the tune of Ain’t No Sunshine as I perused the vintage books and cameras.  And the food at this market made me never want to leave. There were home-made pastries, fresh fruit and veggies and exotic dishes from places like Morocco, Thailand and Spain.
Best Buy: A turquoise pendant from Afghanistan.

Old Spitalfields: There was once a woman who married the Eiffel Tower. If I were to marry a public site, it would be Spitalfields markets. It’s creative, unique and quirky, and you can walk around without being hassled every five metres – all the makings of a perfect partner. This is where artistic-types gather, and you can find some really inspired pieces by truly talented people here. I day-dream about exploring this Wonderland – and it’s in Brick Lane so you can head out for a drink in the uber-cool area afterwards, too.
Best Buy: A leather Indiana-Jones satchel and a necklace with a bronze pig-with-wings pendant.

Camden Passage: If this were a Facebook page, I’d be a fan. Actually, there probably is a Facebook page out there somewhere that I should find and ‘like’. Camden Passage is a small market in the back streets of Islington and is mainly made up of vintage clothes and pretty-but-useless ‘things’ that I always seem to find an excuse to buy. It’s great for an afternoon stroll, and The Breakfast Club café has great food/coffee/brownies/everything.
Best Buy: Three beautiful, vintage silk scarves.

The men who don't fit in.

 I read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood months ago now.

And it is a story that has stuck around in my mind since... In particular, one poem keeps popping up in my thoughts. That's a pretty clear sign that it has had a fairly profound influence over me. 

So in realising this, I thought I'd go ahead and share it.

I hope you find it as moving as I did.

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
 A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
 And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
 And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
 And they don't know how to rest.
If they just went straight they might go far;
 They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
 And they want the strange and new.

Frankie Goes

Frankie is now a contributor on the wicked travel-writing site, She Goes.
I've got to admit, I feel a little bit spesh seeing my name splashed across the home page of a website I've been a fan of for yonks.

So here it is ya'll - the first of many, I hope!

Frankie's first submission on SheGoes.com: Mid - Year Resolutions.

bit.ly/fanCta

Ode to the Witty

I've always admired witty people; those who can pull out some perfectly crafted, sharp line on call. It's kind of an art-form, wit. And it's definitely not something that can be learned... To always be "on the ball" as they say, is an awesome talent. You have to be completely balanced and totally aware of what's going on around you. I can't carry a cup of tea from the kitchen to my bedroom without pouring it down my front.

I think I've developed a bit of a complex about this. I so want to be that person. And every time I realise something has slipped past me - which has happened more times than I'd like to admit - I want to kick myself in the face.

I've often listened silently as these marvellous creatures work; observed as they construct their verbal masterpieces, all the while exuding this aura of, I don't know... knowingness, I guess it must be. I stare, blank-faced, probably drooling out the corner of my unmoving mouth - in awe. I think nothing is so impressive as someone who has their wits about them.

Meet-cute

Ever had a day, or even just a moment, that felt like it was out of a movie script?

I know I've had a ton. I've had experiences that were "so Seinfeld," or right out of Sex and the City. I swear, I've even had a few days that resembled Twilight.

The other afternoon a 'friend' of mine - who i'll leave unnamed simply because this story is a little embarrassing - was coming home from uni and as she walked down the congested street, she saw four or so bright blue tee-shirts up ahead. She didn't need to read the branding on their shirts to recognise who they were. Passersby were gravitating in the opposite direction with their heads facing the ground, and would fling their phones to their ear as soon as a blue tee-shirt stepped toward them with an extended hand. They were charity workers, recruiting advocates for their cause. My friend, picked up her uni reader and glued her eyes to the text, reading one line over and over, glancing ahead only to stay aware of the human traffic rushing about her. She passed the first three tee-shirts unnoticed, but just as she went to past the last of the four, a hand was shoved in front of her chest and an English accent asked "Hi, how are you today?"

Fuck

She took the English hand. And turned to face its owner, saying a sloppy "Hhhyeah i'm good," as she tried to think of an excuse to leave. The guy asked her if she knew what the largest killer of children in Africa was. She didn't. He explained that is was diarrhoea, as a result of unclean water, and went on to tell her about the sub-standard living conditions of these children. Mid-way through his speech she looked up at his face and noticed he had these beautiful, clear blue eyes. Maybe three minutes later, she was signing up for daily donations.

Pen and Paper

I had no speech, so I wrote.

I wrote until the pen ran dry and my mind was quiet.