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The following morning I received an email from the dating facilitators to announce that the tick system was now open for submitting my yays and nays. My two friends submitted their ticks within half an hour of the email coming through alongside nearly all of the guys. I however felt strangely disengaged with the idea of rushing to make my decision, I already knew what my responses would be.
Other than Mr Dominatrix, the man who thought (and failed) to weird me out, everyone had submitted their responses by 20:00. I was sat cross legged with my laptop resting on my calves, donning my Gap jogging bottoms and a baggy Southampton hoody (the one someone gave me in the back of a disgusting nightclub in my student days, but that’s another story). I set my cup of tea down and opened up the laptop.
My likes and dislikes were completed swiftly and without much thought. No, no, no, no, no… I ticked no to all the eleven men I’d been on speed dates with the night before. Next came the mild curiosity to find out which, if any, of the men had liked me. To find that out all I had to do was hit the big submit button. The system tried to get me to rethink my decision but I overruled it. The men had all been pleasant enough, but Alice just was not interested.
Submit.
I opened up the next screen to see five guys had ticked yes to me. Five guys that would either be gutted or indifferent that the feeling wasn’t reciprocated. Three of the five guys had also ticked yes to one of my other friends which led me to believe in the age of quick hit love they’d get over me pretty quickly. My friends and I were all were equally fine with sharing updates and matching,texting and dating overlapping men (or in my case taking my off-casts). The girl chat continued late into the night and I went to bed content that at least my two friends had better luck than me.
I woke up the next morning and underwent the normal routine to get myself in the right mental state for work. I logged onto my work laptop at 7:55 with a strong Americano in hand and pulled myself, sip by sip, into a mental state fit for work.
I made it to mid-morning before I started reflecting on things outside my work. I started thinking about my dating life, about how in Swindon it was non-existent and how in London it was over-existent. How repetitive and tedious the dating apps were, what with all the constant swiping and then, assuming you even got any matches, how tediously dull the small talk was only for people to disappear, blurt out something inappropriate or stand you up on a date. All things I’d experienced far too often in the past year. Most of all how much time I was wasting on something completely unproductive and unfulfilling.
The writing had been on the wall months, if not years. I’d already been banned from apps Tinder and Happn after trying to convince too many men to read my blog (causing me to be wrongly reported as a bot or fake profile). I’d become fatigued with the premise and the creepy men that I actually took the bans as a blessing in disguise.
I’m single but happily so. If I can buy and run a house by myself, go on holiday by myself, have fun with my existing friends then why trawl through the 4am matches in desperation to find someone just to validate I mean something to someone? Some people have insecurities and need to hop from relationship to relationship, and good for them. But for me my independence means so much that the idea of losing that makes me do this inside:
(Not an attractive look on dates.)
So why on earth am I trying to force myself into a serious relationship? Why am I digging out and enhancing photos to make myself look more appealing? I know I’m awesome so why am I trying to make men see that from just a handful of photos? And the same for men – who gave me the right to judge men in a similar vein when I’ve always said it’s not how I would find or build a connection with anyone – man or woman, relationship or friend.
I want to do more with my life while I can, I want to write more, do more, be more. I want to think “wow, I did something good this evening” or have a lazy, evening where I can watch rubbish TV guilt free, instead of beating myself up because I didn’t get any matches on Bumble.
That has settled it, I’m deleting the dating profiles, removing the apps and focusing on me. I’m not saying I’ll never return to dating apps and I’m certainly not about to become a nun, but right now I need the detox. If someone happens upon my path then I at least know it’s natural and, dare I say it, fate.
I’ve signed up to a writing course and am now dedicating my energies into that alongside my career, Swindon 18-30 and volunteering at my local Samaritans branch. I genuinely won’t/don’t have the time for time wasters.
Watch the clip below. Right now I’m Owen Wilson’s character but with time and dedication I want to become more like Corey Stoll’s (aka Hemingway).
I wrote this and The Time I Discovered I was a Dominatrix in mid June so by the time you read these I’ll already have removed myself from proactive dating and be very much stuck into my writing course. If for the time being I don’t post as much on this blog, you know why.
I like doing what I do and it always makes me smile when I hear that you like it too. Presently no one pays me for my writing (be it for MHAM or freelance) and while I fully believe in the principles of hard work in an ideal world I’d like to earn a little something here and there to fund my coffee-spilling habits. The more people read my writing the more likely I am to get somewhere.
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…a massive thank you to everyone who is already a subscriber/liker/follower of My Housemate’s a Mermaid. Since I started back in 2014 your support has meant a lot to me and is the sole reason why I’ve continued doing what I do. You’re all mother-flipping awesome humans.
This post features images of taxidermy. To understand why visit the Powell-Cotton Museum website. “The past is a foreign country” – L.P. Hartley.
**
Sometimes on those rare moments of peace and tranquillity I take a step back and think to myself, “where does my creativity come from? My ability to construct a half decent sentence together that delves deep into an experience, item or concept while also being able to pull out some humour that keeps people coming back time after time to this humble website of mine?” It’s on such occasions I naturally turn to my family to find the source of my flowing words…
…and realise I really must have been adopted.
Despite the fact my normal dress sense makes me a walking advert for the French rom com Popularie (and something I’m completely fine with, even if it is set in 1958)…
…the Cotswold Bennett clan were in fact dressed up to the nines in the Powell-Cotton Museum at Quex Park for a family wedding. The union of my lovely cousin Stella with her Welsh husband-to-be Alun. Because if there was one thing our family needed, its more Welsh (given I’m only 25% of the rugby-mad stuff this marriage couldn’t come soon enough, our family is becoming far too English).
The day started in the same way most my weekday mornings do, wondering why the hell I was awake and why wasn’t I drinking coffee. Not that it got in the way of me catching up on the zzz’s, I woke up some 2.5 hours down the M25 to find a blob of saliva on my dress and a chicken roll having appeared on my lap. I think India might have thrown it at my face. If my bodily fluids didn’t ruin my make up before then the massive size-of-your-face chicken roll did. Again, I took a bite of the roll to be very concerned over the amount of red behind (thankfully my lipstick, not thankfully an expensive brand of the stuff).
Once we’d arrived at Birchington (where Mumma Bennett had booked the apartment for the extended weekend) there was a delightful scene where the postcode wrongly took us to the wrong spot, causing us to drive up and down the street multiple times. When people in mobility scooters and shorts start giving you looks you know you’re looking like class A muppets. A particular highlight was when Papa Bennett proposed us three women get changed at the wedding venue seeing as it was apparently so close to where we’d be staying. The response?
As if we’d even be dared seen by other guests before we’d got into our wedding gear. I only had one of my normal 50s outfits on! Men.
Flash forward a few hours once we’d finally found the apartment, got bags, got changed, went to the loo, changed shoes, updated make up, went to the loo again and hopped in the car for all of the two minute journey and were at the venue. One of the first people we saw when arriving at the venue was Aunt Shiona, mother of the Bride.
“What are you doing all here so early?! We had bets on you!” She said as she gave us all hugs and chatted briefly before dashing of to more important matters.
“What a funny thing to say about having bets on us.”
“I can believe it.” Mumma B said.
“I think she was joking.”
“We’re a whole forty minutes early Dad,” I interjected, “that’s not like us at all.”
And then we were chatting and chilling with relatives and I was complaining that I couldn’t be the little toddler who got to wear a pretty dress and roll around in the dirt on a wedding day.
“I mean you could,” Uncle Martin said.
“Don’t worry, on Alice’s wedding it’ll be all mud pies and S Club 7 songs” Mumma B said. While everyone laughed I muttered to India “do you think we can get Aqua live?”
And then the wedding happened. Sorry Stella and Alun, I know you guys love my blog but I honestly can’t think of much to say – I wish I could write something wonderfully romantic but unlike your friends I stuffed up my poetry module at A Level. Urm…
The ceremony was wonderful // Stella’s dress was anything but colourful.
(I think I’ll stick to the writing.)
Here is a very small sample of some of the photos taken of Stella and Alun on the day.
And here is one of the child I want to be when I grow up.
And here are a selection of all the many selfies I did whilst we were waiting for the drinks reception.
And then things ground to a temporary halt while we tried to fix the selfie stick/camera.
But luckily Aunt Yvonne was on hand to capture me at my most beautiful.
I never met the guy stood behind me in that photo but I think he liked me, that or he felt pity (very easy to get the two mixed up in my world).
And lets take a moment to admire how amazingly my bun held up, despite the four hour drive/sleeping/undressing-dressing/just being me.
You know, with some of the pictures I’m seeing here you’d think the official photographer could have taken the day off. Anyway moving on and back, the venue was lovely. I mean a wedding in a mother flipping museum is always going to get me excited. Don’t forget this…
…This was taken before the consumption of any alcohol. So I was living the dream being able to drink prosecco and wonder exhibitions with suited and other smart type people.
Even if it made me look like a horned beast.
But they had a kid’s trail (and seemingly unlimited prosecco and canapes) so I was prepared to overlook this.
We sat down for food and, you’ve guessed it, took more selfies (remind me again why we were there?) Mumma B tried to set the camera up for Bluetooth group photos, but by this point I was on the table wine with a stomach lined with a couple of mini spring rolls. Of course I wasn’t going to be taking anything seriously.
Stella and Alun then cut their wedding cake. FYI am I the only one thinking Stella was far too happy to be holding such a sharp knife?
Alun probably had his eye on it for his tomato addiction. His need to consume £50 worth of the little red things a week got a mention in every one of the speeches to much laughter. Everyone needs a hobby I guess.
After speeches, food and yet more table wine (suddenly the headache I had the next morning makes a lot more sense) people broke off while the function room was set up for evening entertainment.
Papa B, India, Uncle Chris and a few others got excited over a drone and Mumma B grabbed a photo just in time to get my typically Alice reaction.
Mumma B and I instead spent time wondering around the gardens and discussing flower beds and architecture. Standard. Once the evening portion of the night kicked off it was all dancing and fun way into the night. Have you ever danced to the hit song Nelson Mandela by The Specials at a wedding? Well you have not lived my friend.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m dancing for Mandela India! We’ve got to free him!”
“[Laughs] what the hell?”
“FREEEEEEE NELSON MANDELA! INDIA! IT’S MANDELA!”
(For context, Stella spent a good deal of time in Southern Africa growing up.)
And then eventually the whole night wrapped up with a UB40 song.
“What’s this?” India asked.
“The song played when the DJ wants you to bugger off.”
***
The following days were spent relaxing and enjoying the Kentish sunshine. A particular highlight was when the four of us visited Walmer Castle in Deal. India, with her expert technical knowledge helped restore my confidence that I must be at least related to her.
Further shored up when she got just as excited over a pair of mini Wellington boots as I did.
Tell you what, I have a lot of time for a young Wellington. Before I say anything further let me explain a bit of background behind the rationale.
Whilst loving life in Granada recently myself and one of the girls I was staying with developed an heightened interest in olives. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was the fact we didn’t know each other and were jumping on the first connection we had but our lust of olives was just off the scale. Our friends would have told us to get a room, if we hadn’t already decided we were going to because of the olives. We bought a massive jar between us and in started taking ‘shots’ of olives and eventually skipped the middle man by carting the whole jar to bed with us at stupid o’clock (don’t ask me to explain why). Anyway, because the jar was so hard to open and because of how much we loved those olives I coined a phrase to subtly describe any man (or woman) that the perciever took a fancy to. I explain this to you now a) for future reference on any subsequent blog posts and b) because seeing a young Wellington in Walmer Castle prompted me to say it.
“Ooh. He can open my olives.”
“What?”
I related the above story to India.
“Again, what?”
**
I attended my cousin’s wedding with only my immediate family and happily so. It made me wonder why people have this need to put on their dating profiles “seeks +1 to attend weddings”. Why? What’s wrong with going solo? I had just as much fun being a plus zero, if not more so by being able to be classic Alice and wander around a museum late at night after a glass or two, pretending I was living my own version of Night at the Museum. Would I have wanted a plus one to see we twirling about and exclaiming “I love History!”? Goodness no!
The Cotswold Bennett clan left Kent early on Sunday having spent a four days in South East England, a part of the country that none of us had visited in any depth before. We came away feeling very relaxed and India and I with a long list of wedding ideas for that of our own one day (although for the love of God don’t let that be any time soon – Aqua don’t have the availability).
**
Big love to my cousin Stella and her husband Alun, I had a wonderful time at your wedding and wish you all the best now and long into the future. I’m no poet but I hope this, alongside the wire chicken egg holder (memories of hunting cheap eggs in London), I hope they both make you smile.
“29/04/18. My arms are aching, my legs are covered in bruises and I’m completely shattered. I must be in London.”
It has been a week since I vacated my flat in central London and returned once more to Swindon. It almost feels like the past year has all been but a dream, vape steam in the breeze. Invisible, abstract and only memorable by the faint smell it leaves behind.
On 2nd May I left London Paddington station for the last time packed like a loaded Buckaroo: an overfilled holdall case, a heavy rucksack, an additional handbag, a canvas tote filled with redundant bedlinen and a heavy laptop across the body for good measure. I learnt from my mistakes moving out and managed the travel back relatively bruise free, however my body has ached for days from strain. The day before I fully moved I’d completed a separate trip to Swindon with a similar amount of goods and wondered why I couldn’t stop violently shaking. I spilt coffee everywhere at the formal work function, of course. At the time I put it down to the amount of rushing around but now I see it as the culmination of mental and muscular stress.
Other than the short term pains it would be easy to pass off what I’d been through and achieved in just over twelve months living and working in the English capital as nothing more than normal. ‘Business as usual’ as my colleagues would say. But it isn’t. And it’s not just the big things that make me say that, like moving into the flat and travelling solo in Europe for the first time, but it is the little things as well. The events I put myself out of my comfort zone to attend, the weird obsession with finding the cheapest eggs, the men (goodness the men). And as I stood in Brompton cemetery one Sunday afternoon while a random man called Nicolas tried to chat me up I thought only one thing.
Thank God I’m writing this all down.
Seven separate notebooks, all documenting the experience of spending a year in London. Seven books with unique but different personalities as I went through a deeply personal and professional journey. Just glancing over extracts from book one and comparing it to book seven the transformation is really quite something (excluding coffee spilling and egg hunting, those two are deeply trademarked parts of me). Admittedly I haven’t read any of the books in depth since writing, I want to let some water trickle under bridges first. But I remember so clearly picking the first notebook off a shelf in a stationery store and telling myself I would make every effort to record the upcoming eight months in London (as it was then supposed to be) so that I should not forget the experience when I returned once more to Wiltshire. To ensure that I never let this fantastic opportunity turn into little more than a faded dream. And maybe, just maybe, one day I will do something more with my scribbles, that people will know about the time I ended up at a celebrity wedding, when the artist Grayson Perry became a fan of my writing, the time I got screen tested for a dating show. And again, the men.
If two things show how much I’ve changed over the past year then look no further than these separate quotes.
For my second of two articles I had to produce for the internal monthly newsletter I decided to do an interview with a senior bod in the organisation. However this is me and while I’m still clinging onto the famous ‘graduate’ gold pass (I’m not a graduate, but there has to be some perks to people forever calling me that), well, it seemed perfectly reasonable to take a different stance on the traditional dry corporate interview the Executive Committee usually answer via email. Even though you won’t know the guy directly I hope you get what I was trying to do here, I certainly got the feeling he did.
Jeremy Paxman got nothing on me.
Closed Conversations with JS, Head of Digital
JS: So why are we doing this?
AB: I thought it would jazz up the newsletter interview if we got to know the man behind the face. Don’t get me wrong, I love Digital strategy…
JS: *Chuckles*
AB: …but we don’t really get to know you. Shouldn’t take long but before we start I should say you’re allowed to decline questions or terminate the interview should you feel uncomfortable
JS: What are you going to ask me?!
AB: I’m just covering my back J
JS: *Chuckles* okay, go on.
AB: What’s your favourite chocolate bar?
JS: Galaxy
AB: Biggest strength?
JS: Resilience
AB: Football or Rugby?
JS: Rugby
AB: Favourite team?
JS: Bath Spa
AB: Playground nickname?
JS: Ginge
AB: Would you rather be a giant hamster or a tiny rhino?
JS: Tiny rhino
AB: Bath Spa or Swindon?
JS: As in the city?
AB: Well, yeah, I wouldn’t make you compare Swindon to basic hygiene.
JS: *Laughs* fair enough, Bath Spa
AB: What’s your Zodiac sign?
JS: Cancer
AB: Morning lark or night owl?
JS: Morning lark
AB: Tea or coffee?
JS: Coffee
AB: Would you rather meet an alien visitor of travel into space?
JS: *Pause* travel into space
Favourite band/artist?
JS: Anything before 1998
AB: What happened after 1998?
JS: It all went downhill
Describe yourself in one word.
JS: *Long pause*
AB: Just anything
JS: It’s a tough one
AB: Have you never had to answer that at an interview?
JS: I haven’t been interviewed in ten years! *long pause* Determined
AB: Digital or analogue?
JS: Analogue…joking! Of course it’s Digital.
AB: God, you had me worried there for your job. As if an analogue fan could head up digital, I’d have to get you escorted of the building out on principle!
The below was written as part of an internal communication piece showcasing employees who have chosen to relocate for their work. My piece focused on moving to London but with a classic Alice twist.
I wake each morning and stare at an isolated patch of peeling paint. I don’t how it came to be or why I look blankly at it every morning, but it has become a weird habit I’ve developed since relocating. Everyone has habits here, some people get through their commute with a super-skinny-muchos-frappy-bean café deluxe, others smoke like the bellowing car exhausts on Tower Bridge, for me staring at length at a flaky patch is mine. And I wonder why my Mum worries for me.
The most over repeated piece of advice on Development schemes is to make your own opportunities and I suppose for me London represented this to the extreme. If I could survive in the big smoke I could thrive anywhere. Combined with an exciting placement proposition I could hear Threadneedle calling in May 2018.
Upon arrival I told myself that I wouldn’t become another digit on London’s loneliness statistics which is why I have made every effort to try new things outside of work. “Speed-friending” events are all the rage in central London, up there with humanitarian clubs and vegan veg-outs. Regardless of my outlook I’ve attended all manner of get-togethers and learnt so much of wider society. I’ve even learnt to embrace my inner hipster, sitting crossed legged at acoustic sets and hanging out in independent coffee shops in berets and neck scarves (and getting subsequently mistaken for being French. “Je suis…Anglais”, the end result of five years of the British education system).
From the moment I leave my flat each morning I’m reminded of how far removed I am from Swindon. The smell of soot in the air, angry cyclists cursing at pedestrians, the wrapper of a tourist poncho blowing down the street, admittedly my battered copy of Lonely Planet didn’t prepare me well for daily life in the capital. But through perseverance I’ve forged my own lifestyle and friendship groups and that’s what I’m proudest of. The experiences I encounter, good and bad, are shaping me into a stronger person, the person I never thought I could be.
My advice to anyone considering placement relocation comes as no surprise. Do it! In the protective bubble of development schemes there’s a lot to gain from taking a plunge. Just don’t get in the way of my morning commute, yeah?
I’ve kicked of my 2019 in true style, by having a piece of my skull yanked out of socket. That’s right, on the third day of this year I got so bored of life in 2019 that I chose to have a second wisdom tooth removed (sorry 2019, but you really need to up your game).
For those less familiar with my life, you’ll find the delightful account of my last wisdom tooth extraction that took place back in 2016 here. I suppose the main difference between the circumstance of that experience and this is that the first wisdom tooth to be removed was a delightful little critter that was burrowing a hole into the side of my cheek. I was doubled over in absolute pain the day I stumbled into a private clinic to have an emergency removal (thanks massively to Mumma Bennett who scouted out the surgery on my behalf). The wisdom tooth being removed this time round who I will fondly as ‘Left Upper Eight’ had been giving me grief for some years now, but nothing quite like the previous tooth that had being trying to burst out of my cheek, Baby Alien style. Left Upper Eight liked to keep me on my toes, a mouth ulcer here and there, an odd antibiotic-fixing infection every so often to keep me on my toes, but day to day little more than an occasional jab to remind me of its existence.
After a particularly challenging couple of weeks around Christmas time I finally made the decision to be done with Upper Eight’s tricks and be rid of him/her/it(?) for good. It says a lot that top of my New Year to do list was call the London surgery to book in an examination and removal.
I’d had this done before, so waiting for my appointment didn’t bother me in the same way as it had done the years before. Course, the private dentist’s waiting room had had large leather seats and played Heart radio which you could listen to with an selection of Women’s Weeklies. The NHS waiting room at my London dentist is none of these things, but then it’s also less than half the price for what it clinically defines as Band Two treatment. Besides, who really cares about their horoscope for the week when they’re about to have a surgical drill put in their mouth? A Christmas present guide on the Top 111 Coffee Shops in London will do the job.
I was told to go down to the dentist, an unusual experience for this dentistry as in all my previous dentist surgeries I’d become acquainted with nurses leading me through to the chair itself. Pros of this mean no need for that awkward small talk that you have to make both sufficient and short enough to fill the ten second gap from waiting room to dentist, the con is that on this occasion I found myself walking hesitantly down into the basement area of the surgery where my dentist was ready and waiting. When going for a check-up it’s bright and breezy, but knowing you’re going to have a tooth extracted makes you feel a bit uneasy. I had to remind myself that I wasn’t going down to the hull of a ship where the dentist was little more than a drunk sailor with a saw. I put on my best normal look as I walked into the room.
“How are you Alice?” The dentist asked.
“I’m here to get a tooth removed that’s making me miserable in a procedure that short term will make me even more miserable. How do you think I feel?” I thought to myself, nut instead I said…
“Alright, I’ve been better.”
He went through the procedure and I smiled and nodded throughout as he explained the potential complications. To cover his own back, that I was sure of, although the complications became increasing gruesome. I started to squirm in my seat, the private dentist had never informed me of any potential complications before.
“And finally there’s a risk the removal of the bone can cause a hole in the sinus. Why does that cause an issue you ask…”
“I didn’t” I thought.
“Well that means when you eat food could get up your nose because the two spaces would become one. I’d stitch it though, you wouldn’t even be aware of me doing that if it happened.”
“Yippee for that” said the dry voice my head as I outwardly smiled pleasantly. Sat in the chair I forced myself to sign the form to give this man full control over something I was beginning to regret choosing. Maybe the antibiotics weren’t so bad.
Sparing all the details of what happened (more because I was both thankfully unaware due to the local aesthetic and having my eyes tightly shut) about ten minutes later, if that, I opened my eyes with a lump of surgical gauze in my mouth and the offending tooth laid bare on a tray. When asked if I wanted to keep it the drugs, gauze and moment itself made my response usual and typically Alice.
“You’re cute.” I said to the tooth. From the corner of my eye I could see the dentist and the nurse exchanging a look. I studied its shape and yellowed colour from the long hook that that previously sat below the gum line. It really wasn’t cute.
“So you want to keep it?” The dentist repeated, slight bafflement in his voice. Clearly I was one of a minority to take such interest in a tooth, at least one of the few people over the age of 11.
Sense returned to me. “Err, actually no, it’s alright.” As drawn as I was to the tooth I remembered I had plenty of other functioning teeth in my mouth to marvel at. The drugs and the moment itself started to wear off, to be replaced with a new sensation in my mouth that made me keen to release myself from the small white room.
“You’ll start feeling pain in the jaw area where the tooth has been extracted, that’s normal.” The Dentist said, before going through the aftercare process. I signed the last form, thanked the man for removing the tooth but took leave my leave quickly. I returned to the flat thankful that its emptiness meat I could groan through the gauze, my pain explicit but implicit to me and myself only.
Which puts me where I am now, currently working through a post surgery recovery plan to get me back to my normal-ish self. There have been ups and downs, downs with the pain, the unable to drink coffee until it is barely warm, unable to eat solid or large meals. Ups when the pain killers kick in and feeling neutral is a blessing, when I get over the foul taste and the salt water temporarily eases the soreness. My tongue has yet to reach that curious stage when it’ll explore that side of the mouth and find the crater that exists where Left Upper Eight used to be. In repulsion the oral muscle will then swiftly retreat back to its former position where it’ll remain in hiding for several weeks. It happened before and it’ll happen again, I just know it.
I’m glad to be rid of my second wisdom tooth and long term know I will look at this as a good decision to make in my life. Short term pain for long term gain as the gym freaks would say. Ironically I’ve been told to stay away from vigorous exercise for at least a week, so I guess that’ll be my excuse for eating cakes and hanging out in coffee bars for the time being.
I recently visited the fair city of Bruges (or, to give it’s Flemish name, Brugge) in Belgium. While on paper there was nothing grand or seemingly important about this four day break in a historic city, for me personally it meant a lot. Why? Because it was the first time I’d ever travelled abroad by myself. It has been something I’ve wanted, nay, known deep down I was capable of for a while but I never had the courage to take the leap.
So as something a bit different I’ve created a video of my travels in the historic city. View and enjoy!
I had the best time in Bruges by experiencing all the city has to offer and more (a highlight not showcased in the video was a very moving moment when I had an organ recital all to myself in one of Bruges’ many churches. I’d been wondering around the church and about to leave when a volunteer started playing. I sat in the pews and was almost brought to tears by the beauty of the music and the environment.)
For anyone considering similar I say simply this. Do. It.
My Housemate's a Mermaid 