Adelaide

There is nothing more terrifying in this life than being chased by a fat, bloodied clown wielding a long knife and a hunk of what appears to be someone’s mangled, trainer-clad leg.

This was the reality of the Adelaide 2010 Zombie Walk.

With donations in aid of the local charity Foodbank SA, this annual Halloween event invites participants to gather at sunset in the city’s Rymill Park, dressed up in their Zombie best, to begin a mass exodus that takes them right through the heart of the city. The event’s simplicity is its brilliance, and is what draws a 3000-strong crowd from all walks of life to participate in its organised chaos.

With distorted faces leering at me from every shop window, ‘Be There or Be Scared’ invitations clogging up my inbox, and this year’s X Factor contestants looking even freakier than they normally do, I am as excited about this year’s Scary Season as I am about the Steps Reunion Tour. I’d far rather be in Adelaide, Australia, taking part in the only Halloween celebration I have ever really enjoyed.

A far cry from the ‘slutty vampires’ and ‘horny devils’ that will be tottering around London tomorrow, Adelaide’s Zombies were truly fearsome, impressively hideous creatures. My three friends and I felt rather nervous as we huddled together in the Park, our own backcombed, floury hair and bloodstained mouths paling in comparison to the gore-soaked pilots, bloodied Batmans and grisly nurses that mingled around us. I was particularly disturbed by the sights of wounded Zombie dogs, their ‘ribs’ gaping from their sides, and bloody Zombie babies, festering on their mothers’ shoulders.

As 7.30pm approached, our leader took to the stage, and the crowd let out an excited, bloodthirsty roar.

‘Louder!’

Rooooooar.

‘You can do better than that!’

Roooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaarrr.

‘Come on, who are ya...............MELBOURNE?!’

That really got them.

ROOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAR.

 And with that, the walk was declared open, and ear-splitting groans resounded through the park as we raised our undead arms and began to amble unsteadily through the balmy October air into the city.

Visitors to Adelaide that evening would have been forgiven for abruptly U-turning and racing back to wherever they’d come from, as even to those of us in the know, it did feel a little like the world was ending. As the city’s traffic lights flashed incoherently, and the growing queues of cars were mobbed by groaning, grinning corpses, I half expected Will Smith to appear from nowhere and start dragging the rare and embarrassed looking civilians from amongst us to safety.

With the sun gradually spilling more blood over the rooftops, Grenfell Street merged into Curie Street and we stopped to admire the incredible artwork of a Shaun of the Dead style Zombie, who had an LP record jauntily sticking out of his head. He grinned at us in appreciation, and blood oozed out from between his teeth.

It was a truly bizarre yet empowering feeling to be marching disdainfully down the middle of the roads that I usually crossed with such caution. Similarly extraordinary was the sense of unity that we Zombies all seemed to feel. It was as if the curtain of social normality had been lifted, and suddenly it was perfectly acceptable for strangers to link arms with one another and pull faces at terrified ‘civilian’ children huddled inside their cars.

Within half an hour, the four of us were pushing past Bonnie and Clyde into the Colonel Light pub at our final destination of Light Square. In my opinion, the evening had been the perfect Halloween activity: brief, immensely entertaining and genuinely terrifying!

The popularity of Zombie Walks is increasing across the world each year, with Adelaide’s being one of the largest. Until there is one in London which can rival the Aussies in scale and scare-factor, you will not find me venturing out for Halloween. And I certainly will not be donning my ‘sexy witch’ stockings any time soon. 

Thailand

‘For all you naughty smokers, may I remind you that it is late at night and all other forms of transport into London are very limited at this time. Think about it.’

For what it’s worth, the train guard on my 7.58pm service from Newcastle to London is surprisingly lenient for a typically militant National Rail employee.

Nonetheless, this does nothing to abate my critical case of The Sunday Night Blues.

Fresh from a fun-filled rollercoaster weekend visit to The Toon, the first since my Graduation last summer, my luggage-laden, late-night trek down South is certainly not filling me with joy. Especially since the Tottenham football fans who I have just shared an intense 2-2 St James’ Park match with insist on running up and down the aisle yelling for high-5s.

It actually feels a little like being on a school trip. The cool kids are the ones smoking in the toilets and swigging from their spiked bottles of Coke, while the nerdy kids like me sit hunched in their seats, furiously tapping away at their computers and hoping that if they remain quiet enough, they will eventually become invisible.

I can think of a multitude of train journeys I’d rather be on at this moment.

A particular favourite instantly springs to mind: my 11-hour overnight voyage from Bangkok to Surat Thani, en route to the Thai islands in 2008.

With the windows flung wide, sticky air racing in, it felt like the train was alive, roaring with its own distinct personality. A world away from the bubble of stale air on my predictably efficient East Coast service, I felt like I was part of the landscape itself, with my head stuck out of the window dog-style, drinking in the strange smells and rich colours. My iPod long forgotten, hours of the journey disappeared as I stared out at flashes of brilliant green paddy fields, forbidding forests crawling with tigers and other fabulous beasts (or so my imagination promised me) and occasionally the glinting roofs of small towns.

As dusk approached, to my surprise and delight a rarely rotund Thai lady shuffled up to my seat and presented me with a menu. I am firmly cautious of in-flight food (those oh-so-perfectly square, luridly coloured vegetables scare me a little), so was thrilled with my simple but delicious noodles, which had evidently been prepared and packaged by hand moments before.

The surprises didn’t stop there; on my return from the bathroom, I did a double take as I discovered that in the minutes I had been gone, my seat had disappeared, to be magically replaced by a full-sized and fully sheeted bunk bed. I turned to watch in wonder as, further down the carriage, a small Thai man summoned more bunks from nowhere, deftly whipping around sheets and mattresses twice his size.

Manoeuvring myself into my narrow top bunk without interrupting the deep-throated, rolling snores already issuing from the bunk beneath me was no mean feat. After a couple of failed attempts to hoist myself aboard, I became aware of a stifled giggle from behind me, and turned to see a gaggle of young Thai girls tucked up together on the opposite bottom bunk, watching my progress with great hilarity. Not one of them looked at all abashed that I had noticed their amusement, on the contrary beckoning me over to sit with them. I spoke not a word of Thai and they not a word of English, so we preceded to have a very bizarre yet pleasurable encounter comprised of exaggerated hand gestures, fascinated photo-taking and manic laughter.

With the guffaws and helping hands of my new Thai friends, I finally managed to lurch my way into bed. While the cocooned privacy that the bunk curtains gave was an unexpected luxury, I’m not going to pretend that I had the most restful of nights. With the artificial carriage lights singing my eyelids, as well as the train’s frequent yelling and bucking, which required rodeo-like skills to remain horizontal, sleep would have been impressive for the most diligent of slumberers. While earlier I had enjoyed the open windows of my 2^nd class carriage, now I longed for air conditioning as I swam around in my slimy sheets.

Fleeting stops at Hua Hin, Chumphon and many other towns soon became distant memories of the night as, hours later, a misty Surat Thani dawn greeted my stinging eyes, and my steed made one last judder before finally stopping with a steamy sigh of relief.

As perilous and exhausted as I felt wobbling down from my bunk, that journey was a genuinely Thai experience that made my travel to the islands as memorable and as much a part of my trip as my destination ended up being.

‘Anything from the trolley?’ drawls the train attendant, snapping me back to reality.

The recent reminiscence of my delicious, tangy train noodles makes these salty £3 coffees seem anything but appealing. I politely decline.

I watch the attendant plod off down the carriage, awkwardly wheeling around a young lad passed out on the floor by the toilet, as a group chanting ‘oh when the Spurs go marching in’ barge past, hands raised expectantly for more High-5s.

My unraised hand goes unnoticed.

Thank God, I think I’m finally invisible.

Melbourne

‘No more trouble, now bring me some cake.’

Now there’s a phrase I could get on board with.

Perched in a pew, hands clasped in front of me, I close my eyes. And no, I’m not praying to God that He will bestow upon me some delicious baked goods. I’m just completely overawed by the murmur-mumble-melody of Fin Greenall’s voice, as the lyrics to ‘Biscuits for Breakfast’ drift through the hazy air around me.

A Wednesday night in October finds me at the Islington Union Chapel, watching Fink perform on their Perfect Darkness tour.  The atmosphere in the Chapel is in constant undulation between the contented calm of being sung a strange, acoustic lullaby and wild enthusiasm, as the audience show the band their appreciation at the close of each song.

And wow, there certainly is cause to be appreciative, as Fin’s charming smiles and modest words to the audience interweave with a beautifully moody collection of guitar-strummed tunes, all perfectly accompanied by the rhythmically corresponding pulses of light from the gaggle of Pixar-esque background lamps. And as Fink continue to ensure that every guitar-illiterate male in the Chapel is clutching his girlfriend a little too tightly, obliviously lost in the music, lost in the moment, I too begin to dissolve into another place, another time, another piece of cake…

See, while listening to Fink live is like sinking slowly and deliciously into a hot bath, I am very conscious that it is only a matter of time before the water becomes chilly and my fingers age fifty years. In other words, before I have to traipse home and set my 6am alarm for work tomorrow morning. 

Which is why I’d rather be in Melbourne.

Melbourne. A place which Fink jolted in my memory because, in my experience, I would describe it as the City of Cake. I was there a little over a year ago, in September 2010, during a relaxed and alarm-free break from my Semester Abroad University studies in Adelaide.

Melbourne has just been voted the World’s most livable city, and I think its blindingly obvious why: the city’s top activity, as listed in all relevant guide books, is simply to chill out in one of its staggering number of cafés! There is a café for every mood, every minute, every whimsical fancy you may have, and all serving the most succulent array of cakes and treats. As a bit of a Christopher Colombus when it comes to exploring different varieties of cakes (with my firm favourite being a moist Carrot, heavy on the icing), I decided to take ‘When in Rome’ to heart, and spent the majority of my five days in the City busily doing nothing in an array of quaint and quirky eateries. 

I found my favourite haunts hidden deep inside Melbourne’s higgledepiggledy maze of Lanes. I really Alice and Wonderlanded my way into the tiny crammed passages; moments previously I had been strolling along the wide, American-style Elizabeth street, and then, before I knew it, one right turn and I was frantically weaving my way through what appeared to be the city’s magical, Asian inspired underbelly. This part of the city felt a little like delving through my own fancy-dress box: completely random items, a tiara here, a pig’s snout there, all crammed alongside one another, but each a treasure in its own right.

After a trip to the fantastically eclectic Kinki Gerlinki clothes store on Centre Place, my first coffee-break took me to the adjoining alfresco café, which seemed to serve nothing but fruit cakes and Chai Tea lattes. Here is where I had my first slurp of this delicious, creamily spicy beverage, and was instantly hooked by the comfortingly warming sensation that the contrasting flavours created in my belly. Mmmmmm. A moment on my lips, now an indulgent habit I cannot quit!

The café’s seating was actually positioned directly in the middle of the narrow street, so offered perfect people watching opportunities, as the mix of biker-booted Melbournians, tourists and fellow café hoppers thronged around me, so tightly that I frequently had to clutch my knees to my chest to allow them to pass. It also gave me a fabulous view of the graffiti-spangled off-shooting street – ‘beautiful’  is not a word I ever thought would spring to mind when confronted with a cross-legged, florescent Elephant Buddha.

It was not until my final day that I was finally able to plant my flag and declare my voyage of cakery to be complete. I had found my café. Seeming to radiate some kind of holy light, I had been drawn from the Lanes and into Melbourne’s beautiful, historic Block arcade. The crowds vanished, and the calm emanating from the place reduced my voice to a hushed whisper. Following my nose, I moved slowly past the gilded windows, feeling like a nodding-dog as I craned my neck upwards to marvel at the ornate high ceilings, and then down to the demurely intricate mosaic flooring.

The faint smell of cinnamon wafted by as a man clutching a Chai Latte strolled past me.

And then I was there. Nose to nose with a gleaming mahogany cabinet presenting me with a range of the most drool-inducing fancies. A gorgeously bronzed Pecan Pie sat majestically next to a vibrant Lemon Tart, above a huge Chocolatey Mountain near to some sort of Strawberry-Studded Pie…

I can confirm that the Carrot Cake was one of the best I’ve ever tasted. A perfectly moist sponge, nice and nutty with juicy raisins, thick, creamy icing, and a decent sized slice, which left me feeling just on the pleasurable side of sick.

What felt like hours later, it was with great satisfaction that I slid from my slippery wooden stool in the café that I never even knew the name of, and grinned my way back down the knave of the arcade.

I left Melbourne with a full tummy and an empty wallet.

So my thoughts swirl full-circle from one church to another, and I am back in the  Union Chapel, with the sour taste of Salt and Vinegar crisps in my mouth reminding me that I need to buy a new toothbrush on my way to work tomorrow.

See, This is the Thing. I think I’m in love with every member of Fink, but I’d really rather be in Melbourne.