DISCLAIMER:  I understand that Lenin was a very bad man at times. Stalin gets the lion's share of notoriety in the history books thanks to his ruthless purges and war tactics; but Lenin bumped off a few people too. Perhaps his rallying speeches, cute little goatee and the general romance surrounding the revolution often distracts us from the evil.

Still, I am obsessed with the old fella.

It all began in high school when Hobbo, my Modern History teacher, told us Lenin got pickled when he died in 1924. A crack team of embalmers removed his innards, pumped him full of chemicals, dressed him up in a suit then popped him into a tomb on Red Square. Millions of Russians queued to see his body, and continued to do so for decades. After the fall of communism the crowds dropped off and it became the realm of curious tourists.

I was gobsmacked. I found it so bizarre, exciting and deliciously wrong that anyone could just rock up to Russia and see this man, dead for eighty years, who had sparked such monumental events in history.

It became my obsession for the next ten years. This whole moving to the UK thing was really just a convoluted stopover on my way to Red Square. All the frantic saving, all the weekend jobs, it was all done with Lenin in mind. Enduring a three-week Contiki tour was just the final stroke in the master plan.

On the first night in Copenhagen, our Tour Manager outlined the itinerary. He mentioned the words "Red Square" and "Kremlin" but I didn't hear any "Dead Revolutionary In A Box". So Rhi and I bailed him up in a corner afterwards.

"Hello."
"Hello there girls!"
"Enough of the banter. Do we get to see Lenin or what?"

Thus began two weeks of harassment, much like The Simpsons episode where Bart and Lisa want to go to Mount Splashmore. Can we go to Mount Splashmore? Can we go to Mount Splashmore? Can we go to Mount Splashmore?

Tour Manager couldn't guarantee we'd see Lenin. Our time in Moscow happen to fall on days where the Mausoleum was either closed or we were scheduled elsewhere when it was open. All the way through Scandinavia and St Petersburg we worried that we'd miss him, consequently never quite enjoying the journey as much as we should have.

I'll never forget that first glimpse of Red Square. We approached in the Contiki bus; orange and obnoxious amongst the local black Mercedes and crumbly Ladas. We rounded past the stern walls of the Kremlin then finally the multi-coloured domes of St Basils Cathedral came into view. While the rest of the group were still fumbling for their cameras, Rhi and I were off the bus and running to the Square.

Have you got some little thing that you always wanted to do? Some place you always wanted to see? The Pyramids, The Great Wall, The Big Banana? Your obsession may sound so stupid to someone else, but it's your dumb little dream and it means a lot to you. So when you're finally literally standing in it, it's so exciting you think you're going to explode.

I opened my mouth to say something but could only manage a squeak. I was overwhelmed by all the things that had happened there, the military parades, the demonstrations, the Paul McCartney concerts.

And there was the mausoleum, L E N I N spelled out over the door in red, the first word I'd learned to read in Cyrillic. I nudged my sister. "Holy fucking SHIT! Lenin is right over there!"

The next morning we got the news that the schedule had been shuffled. We would attempt to fit in Lenin that day between our Moscow Metro tour and the Museum of the Revolution. Woohoo!

The Metro tour was a whirlwind. Our local guide Galina took us to a half dozen different stops to show us the few remaining Metro stations with Soviet decor. It was fascinating stuff, hammer and sickles ahoy, I must post my photos sometime. But soon Rhi and I were antsy. Take us to the leader!

The queue for Lenin was long when we arrived at 11 o'clock. We had to be at the Revolution Museum by 1. We left Galina standing in her cloud of cigarette smoke and ran, barging past our undeserving comrades who thought Lenin was a dead Beatle. An anxious hour of queuing followed, with much clock watching and swearing as local groups arrived and were allowed in ahead of us. Finally we were herded through the metal detectors and we skipped across the Square.

I developed a slightly hysterical giggle as we entered the Mausoleum, but the monobrowed guard soon shhhhhed me into submission. Lenin literally is six feet under, you walk down a sloping hallway into the tomb, it's all black marble and dimly lit to give a beautifully creepy atmosphere.

There's been idle talk for years about removing the ol' boy from Red Square and burying him with his family, which is what he wanted all along. But for now we can still experience this very surreal slab of history. No talking is allowed; even a smile earns you a glare from the guards. You have to shuffle past Lenin in single file without stopping.

And there he was. Finally. The great leader of the revolution, the idol of misguided university students, the yellow wax-like creature in the glass box. I felt that giggle fly up my throat and lodge somewhere behind my teeth. I clamped my mouth shut so only a faint eeeeee! eeeee! could escape, like a dying mosquito.

I tried to focus, reminding myself that this was The Moment I'd been waiting for, that I'd never see Lenin again. I took in the blue/black of his fingers, the fine hairs of his little beard, the sickly pallor of his skin. He looked so small and sad, trapped beneath glass and fluorescent light.

It was all over in under a minute. Back out in the Moscow sunshine, we walked behind the Mausoleum to look at the graves of departed Soviet leaders. Each had his own bust: a pompous Brezhnev, a truly evil Stalin. Hats off to Josef's sculptor, the evil eyes seemed to follow you as you tiptoed around the corner. It was the most terrifying lump of concrete since The Big Merino.

I expected to feel euphoric after finally fulfilling my lame ambition, but instead I was unsettled. I'd been in Russia over a week at that point and had seen such beauty and grimness, poverty and riches; a country that has weathered a shoddy monarchy, communism and now the confusion of democracy. Did Lenin's body have a place in a country trying to move forward?

Opinion is always divided when the topic comes up in Russia as to whether it's a grim or glorious reminder of the Communist legacy. Watching scores of fat tourists shuffle in the queue, it seemed like a tacky, real-life Madame Tussauds. All week I'd been feeling guilty for the romanticised view of Russia I'd had for all those years, and now my whole Lenin obsession seemed embarrassing.

And yet, just when I thought my Bolshi bubble had completely burst, I heard two of my tour mates yapping behind me.

"That was, like, so creepy. That guy was totally fake!"

My eyes narrowed and I snarled, "His name is Lenin and he's the real deal, dammit!"

That is when it all finally sank in and I starting cheering. I was in Red Square and I'd just seen Lenin. Whether it's right or wrong, there's no denying it was the coolest bloody thing I'll ever see. And I don't care what people say, that's Lenin there in that box. I saw that revolutionary glint in his eyes, even though his eyelids were sewn shut.

Forget the Brandenburg Gate, the Wall or the big sausages. The most spectacular moment of my Berlin jaunt was seeing That Hotel Where Michael Jackson Dangled His Baby.

Everything seemed so organised and sensible in the Scandinavian countries. For someone like me with a Vitamin Logic deficiency, all I could do was press my nose to the bus window and marvel at it all.

First up in Copenhagen I loved the bike lanes. You have the road for the cars, the footpath for the pedestrians, then a whole seperate two-lane deal for the cyclists. They even had their own traffic lights. What a masterpiece of urban planning! And then on the drive from Helsinborg to Stockholm, while possibly The Most Boring Drive On Earth, was another dazzling example of cleanliness and organisation. Windfarms everywhere, row upon row of manicured forests. Even the wildflowers exploding along the road were all cylindrical and spiky like toilet brushes. The innocent eye may have thought they were plain old wildflowers, but I know they were thinking about cleaning; wishing they really were toilet brushes, aching to help keep Sweden clean.

The only thing more logical and organised than Scandinavia was my sister. Rhiannon quickly established a reputation on tour for being the Master of the Backpack. We were staying in a poky little campsite out of Stockholm , four people wedged into each cabin, not big enough to swing a bed bug. On our last morning Rhi and I sat calmly on the porch, the Swedish sunlight squeezing through the trees, feeling rather smug as we watched our cabinmates frantically packing their bags.

"How come you two are always so bloody organised?"
"Ahh. I have a system," Rhiannon said sagely.
"And I copy off her."

Granted, we didn't have as much luggage as our comrades. The night before the trip I had what one might call a Spaz Attack, in which we couldn't find the bathroom scales therefore had to guesstimate the weight of our bags. I became convinced we were over the 20 kilo limit and sqwarked and panicked and convinced Rhi to throw out half our stuff, including the Travel Vegemite that we would really fucking miss when malnourished in Russia. Our bags ended up being only 8.9 and 9.2 kilos respectively. Whoops.

Anyway, Rhiannon's System was so beautifully simple. "It's all about containerizing," she would tell our tour mates as they stood enthralled, watching her in action. When living out of a backpack for three weeks, it's easy to become confused - a new home every couple of nights, trying to separate skanky clothes from clean, the ever-growing stash of souvenirs. Rhiannon controlled the chaos with an assortment of plastic shopping bags. She simply divided up her stuff - a different coloured bag for underwear, another for t-shirts, one each for dirty clothes, shoes, toiletries, towel, snacks and Miscellaneous (phone charger, toilet paper, film), and so on.

Of course you have spare bags, you never know when you'll need to add another category. One for dirty clothes. One for souvenirs. One bag for The Shower Run. This is when you put your Toiletry bag inside a bigger bag that contains your Towel bag, a change of clothes and a pre-purchased shower token, so in the morning you can spring out of your uncomforable bed, grab the Shower Run bag, slide into your shoes that are strategically placed at the foot of the bed and RUN RUN RUN for the showers. This may seem anally retentive but you have to remember one is competing with 40 other Contiki-ers plus dozens of golden Swedes on summer holiday. It is rather satisfying to be bathed and all ready for the day while everyone else is still scrambling for shower token change.

So, once everything is neatly containerized it must be placed into the backpack in the right order. Shoes are heaviest so naturally they're at the bottom. Everything else goes in from least likely to be needed to most likely, so at the top there'll be your toiletries and food. Then in the front pocket of the backpack you can put in essential items that you frequently need to access without having to deal with the main body of the pack. I must admit I didn't not notice there even was a front pocket until Rhiannon pointed it out, nor did I realise the backpack had THINGIES that slide down the straps so they stay flat and don't flap around while you walk. Incredible. Anyway, the front pocket is for the essential stuff - usually your jacket and travel guides. And maybe more food.

The travel guides were my humble contribution to The System. I tightarse-dly photocopied relevant pages from Lonely Planet's Europe On A Shoestring and made a file on each country we visited. Why pay £20 to lug around a weighty tome when you can copy the bits you need for free? Thank you, unnamed employer. Whenever we reached a new city I would whip out the new information and transfer it to my day bag. Before long, confused friends would shout down the bus aisle and say, "What's the population of Finland?" or "How do I order a beer in Russian?" and I could roll my eyes and be smug yet informative.

Anyway, I felt so relaxed and on top of things in Scandinavia. We obsessively kept track of every kroner spent in our Moleskines, averaging our daily spend and preparing budget forecasts and pie charts for the remainder of the trip. It was so liberating to be organised for once in my life, Rhi's system really worked and I was considering dying my hair blonde and applying for a Norwegian Working Holiday Visa.

But alas, The System only works if you have the discipline to stay on top of it. My problem was I would leave my Backpack Maintenence to the late evening when I was too tired to be arsed putting things in the right place. Dirty socks starting mingling with the clean, my souvenirs got mixed up with my shoes, half a pack of almonds slowly dispersed throughout the undie bag.

This culminated in a Helsinki hissy fit. The problem with chucking a tantrum in a hostel dorm is that you have to wait until the room is cleared until you start screaming, because you don't want anyone on the tour to think you're a psycho (Rhi excluded, she already knew). Our two roomies were rather posh and not your usual grotty backpacker types, so I desperately wanted to create the illusion of calm and class so I had to do time my ranting and shoe-throwing between their trips to the hostel laundry.

– I've lost my bloody tickets.
– What tickets?
– My PLANE tickets, hello! What OTHER bloody tickets?
– Calm down!
– I CAN'T CALM -- Oh hi there girls. How's the washing machines in this place?
[Two minutes pass]
– As I was saying. I've looked EVERYWHERE!
– Did you look in your designated Travel Document Bag?
– YES I LOOKED - oh hi again. You forgot your socks? Bugger!
[Dum de dah]
– Now I will have to go through all these FUCKING bags AGAIN! How can I afford to get new tickets? They're non refundable! Non refundable, I tell you! And this has to happen right before we go to Russia, THE CRAZIEST COUNTRY ON EARTH!

Of course three hours later, after I have hyperventilated my way through dinner, I sheepishly retrieve the Travel Document Bag from behind the bed where I must have tossed it in the frenzy to reach find a clean pair of undies .

So yes, The System is valuable, The System works. But you must rule the plastic bags – don't let them rule you.

Feeling a little overwhelmed by life right now. As of Tuesday there's only 8 months til I get evicted from Britain. Allow me to channel that insufferable angstpot Avril Lavigne and ask, why does everything have to be so complicated?

And there's so much I haven't written about. Like the rest of our Iceland trip, now eleven months ago. I never told you about January's Haggis Tour from Hell when M & M were visiting, or the rest of our Adventures with Mothership. Then there's 21 days of Russia and Scandinavia. I'm worried all the memories will just fall out of my head.

This photo was taken in a dingy restaurant in Moscow. A lovely sweet girl on our tour got lost in the Metro for three hours, and finally in desperation she penned this sign and held it up. Classic stuff.

Danish Resistance Museum, Copenhagen

No English Write. Sleep Needed. Happy Weekend...

Why hasn't anyone made a reality show about a Contiki tour? It's like Big Brother on wheels. All the elements are there - tears, laughter, bitching, bonding, binge drinking, same-sex snogging, indiscriminate shagging. And instead of a boring little house the action takes place in some of the world's greatest cities.

It starts out just like the first episode of BB, all staggering in beneath their luggage, circling each other like nervous sharks. Over dinner you play Where Are You From And What Do You Do, with an additional round of Where Have You Traveled And How Cheaply Did You Do It. Everyone scrambles to make a good impression, to appear as funny and engaging as possible, while simultaneously making snap judgments as to who they will avoid or try to bed for the next three weeks.

It's a loud and blurry meal. Some try to stamp their personalities all over the table; some hold back, shredding napkins with an anxious whisper, You are here because it is the most time and cost-effective way of seeing Russia and some other exciting places.

Unlike Big Brother, there's no weekly task to create a sense of team spirit. Instead you slowly bond with activities like Interpreting Swedish Menus or How To Get To The Bus On Time With Crippling Hangover. Sitting for seven hours on a coach through the dullest of Scandinavian highways also helps people to open up. You sit beside a random person and talk and talk and talk, sifting through the minutiae of your lives until you find at least one thing in common.

Once you add alcohol to the mix, the group is tight. After two hours in an All You Can Eat And Drink smorgasbord, everyone is relaxed, all the bullshit and bravado falls away to leave some blossoming friendships. You have a history now. You have in-jokes and catchphrases and "remember when?" moments.

The descent to Planet Contiki is complete. It's like the moment in Big Brother when you realise the contestants are completely immersed into life in the house; they have forgotten the outside world exists. What job? What girlfriend? The other people on the tour have become your family; the tour bus is your home. You fall into a cosy routine - wake up in dodgy hotel, congregate for breakfast, stumble to bus, explore a beautiful town, meet up again in the evening to compare notes and souvenirs, head to the bar, head to bed... new day, new city. It is obscenely fun and addictive.

But then come The Intruders. Just like on BB, they drop in new kids to shake things up. In our case it was 29 people in Helsinki. They had been on a longer trip through Scandinavia and now joined our wee group for the Russia part. It was awkward and terrifying, suddenly plucked from our comfort zones, the precious little worlds we'd created.

The two factions stood on opposite sides of the room and eyed each other like wary teenagers at a school disco. We were fiercely protective of our group; they were nestled happily in theirs. All the vodka in Finland couldn't spark some genuine bonding. Our original group quietly moaned about "the good old days", even though "the good old days" had only existed for the previous week. As the tour wore on, we mingled somewhat, but I'm sure one side would have voted out the other, if that were allowed.

In the last week, fatigue kicks in and facades begin to crack. Unlike BB you don't have a million bucks to motivate you to be nice. Another fucking city, another fucking church, another fucking group photo. Some people genuinely thrive in an 24/7 party environment, but some people cannot fucking STAND it and want some GODDAMN SPACE and wish that girl with the voice like kittens being disemboweled would STOP singing 'Welcome To The Jungle' on long bus trips otherwise she is going to be whacked over the head with a bottle of black market vodka. This may well have been The Most Time And Cost Effective Means Of Seeing Russia And Some Other Exciting Places but it also the most Bloody Exhausting.

But it's all over before you can say Ill-Advised One Night Stand. There are tearful goodbyes and promises to meet up for pints with the people you genuinely adored and hope to know for the rest of your life. There are stiff hugs and promises to meet up for a pint with the people you wanted to bitchslap.

Re-entry to the Real World is painful. You wake up and there's no breakfast waiting for you, no itinerary, no exciting new city to explore, no 30p vodka shots, no everlasting vat of friends who know nothing about you except for your zany holiday persona. You long to go back but the world you were immersed in for the past three weeks no longer exists. You feel lost and unimportant. The only difference between you and a clapped out BB contestant is that there's no nightclub appearances or tabloid photographers to make you feel halfway special.

The youths were much too youthful at this Youth Hostel. I felt as old as Berlin felt new. After a long day of falling in love with the city, I sat at the bar to watch them, and the Holland v Sweden match.

No one looked a patch over seventeen, eyeing each other across smoky pool tables and discounted beers. There were shy smiles and cocky grins, some still smothered in braces. Boys belched; girls shrilled and readjusted scraps of clothing. I tried to remember a time when I too was young and spritely and thought youth hostels were thrilling dens of debauchery, rather than a last resort for a cash-strapped bore shuffling towards thirty.

By the end of extra time they'd started to pair off. What is the criteria for hooking up in hostel? It's too loud to talk, and chances are you wouldn't speak the same language anyway. I observed the couples littering the hallways and concluded that you simply latched onto the person of the opposite sex who mostly closely resembled yourself. Tall rangy blonde boy gravitated to tall rangy blonde girl. Dingy dreded tattoo boy found dingy dreded tattoo girl.

I was feeling lonely. After weeks of new people and places, I craved some familiarity. My weary brain scanned the room, attempting flimsy but consoling connections back to to Scotland. I stared at my glass of Fanta and felt warmed by how Fanta was orange much in the same way Irn-Bru was orange. Then Henrik Larsson lined up for his penalty shot, and I thought fondly how Henrik Larsson used to play for Celtic and Celtic are from Glasgow and Glasgow is in Scotland therefore Scotland was really quite close at that moment, even though Henrik Larsson was actually in Portugal which was further away still.

Now five days later I'm back in Edinburgh, plunged abruptly back into reality and already wishing I was back in that Berlin bar. Mercifully, I don't go back to Job #2 til next weekend (Geriatric Rescue), but yesterday I resumed Job #1 (World's Crappest Secretary).

I was fuzzy and disoriented after three weeks of cityhopping. At the bus stop I riffled through the dregs of seven currencies to find my fare and muttered, "80p. What's that in pounds? Oh. 80p". I thanked the driver in Swedish and the Bacon Roll Man in Russian.

Before I left I'd written in the team diary, SHAUNA WILL BE BACK TODAY TO OPEN YOUR MAIL AND TALK ENDLESSLY ABOUT HER HOLIDAY. And I did, between power naps in the bathroom.

Greetings from Warsaw! We are having the most wonderful day, possibly one of the most rockin' days of the entire trip. I am not sure if it because of the friendly people, the great food and shopping; or the fact that we made it out of Russia in one piece. Russia was bloody amazing, but we stayed in some shady hotels and my diet has been quite dodgy so my gums hurt and my skin looks like a dog's breakfast.

Before we got here we were in Minsk. My prior knowledge of Minsk was limited to the Seinfeld episode about the movie called Rochelle Rochelle -- the unforgettable story of one woman's erotic journey from Milan to Minsk. I didn't have any erotic adventures in Minsk, except for the brief thrill I got from changing 10 euro into Belarussian rubles. 27000 rubles! Rich beyond my wildest dreams!

Yesterday we spent four hours on the Poland/Belarus border. Everyone whinged and moaned as we were trapped on the coach in 30 degree + heat. But we shut up pretty quick when we got to the other side and saw hundreds and hundreds of people queuing and did not have the luxury of air conditioning and Pringles.

The drive to Warsaw was green and full of storks. Their huge nests were plonked atop every power pole and chimney. I thought to myself, I must ask Witold about the storks. What's the deal with the storks, Witold? You'd know, right? Much in the same way that as an Australian, I know everything about kangaroos and beer. Mwahaha.

I wish we had more time in Poland. Everyone has been so friendly and helpful with a great sense of humour. We have been walking around all day saying, "Man, I LOVE Poland!", and that is not just when we saw the handsome army lads. In fact, everyone agrees that Poland has the highest percentage of attractive blokes out of the five countries seen thus far.

My head is still stuffed full of information and traces of vodka, there's so much to say, so much I've learned, so much to appreciate about life and people and blah blah blah. For example, just say you found someone who DOESN'T think it's a great idea to play two Dido album's back to back on a coach ride from Moscow to Yartsevo, you should thank your lucky stars and RUN to them and tell them you love and appreciate them because you are bloody lucky to have found them. Because sadly there are plenty of people who think this is a fabulous idea. Grrrrr.

Where do we go from here? Russia was the #1 place on my list of Things To Do Before I Cark It. What to do now? It's the most crazy scary beautiful wonderful place I've ever been and I go from being completely overwhelmed to just grinning grinning grinning.

I am getting better at reading Cyrillic. I decided to learn the Russian alphabet to pass the time at work, it really pays off when trying to navigate the bloody Metro. Except I stand there gawking up at the signs, lips moving very slooowly trying to sound out the words. I stuffed up in McDonalds today. I wanted a Quarter Pounder but could only make out the word CHEESEBURGER and it wasn't until the teenager behind the counter yelled at me that I realised that the word was ROYAL. I should have remembered that scene from Pulp Fiction.

I don't normally eat Macca's by the way. But sometimes you just want something familiar and easy.

Bloody hell kids, the things we've seen. The Kremlin, museums, gorgeous shops, more vodka, and Lenin. I've been wanting to see the dead guy in his tomb for so long and now I've done it. Now I can finally shut up about it! Bloody hell. I am so overwhelmed. I am going to bore you with stupid Russia stories for months and months when I get home. I am so overwhelmed I could just shed a wee tear right here.... oooo

It's Friday in St Petersburg, I think. It's all a blur. I've been bursting to go to Russia ever since we studied the revolutions in high school. It was one of those lofty dreams I had, so now I cannae believe I'm here, hen. Me the dork from Oz in Russia. HOLY CRAP!

We've seen the Hermitage, the Seige of Leningrad Memorial, a ballet, a bunch of crazy cossacks and many other places I can't remeber the names of. I've eaten some of the dodgiest food ever and went down a dodgy alley to a black market shop. Best of all, we hung out with some lovely Russians in a bowling alley and talked about koalas and cars.

Best of all is the vodka. I'd never had a shot of vodka before, but I loved it. Ice cold liquid that makes your face crumple at first but then POW, the most gorgeous heat bursts inside your ribcage and burns right down to your toes.

I wish I had time to write emails but I have two minutes left, so hope you're all well. I miss you and you and you and most of all YOU. Tomorrow we head to Moscow. До свидания!

I have to learn to be more aggressive. I booked 30 mins of internet time in this here Kirjakaapeli-Kabelboken Library thingy here in Helsinki, and just as I go to sit down this weirdo jumps in front of me and says he has to send an email and will NOT be moved and now I only have 18 minutes left and the library staff can't restart the clock. So this is it for a week or so.

Stockholm was rockin. The highlight for me was the Musik Museet, you get to play all these wacky instruments like hurdy gurdys and harps. And electronic drums, just like the 1980s. I felt like I was in Mike and the Mechanics or something.

Last night I turned into one of those obnoxious young things on a tour, just like I vowed never to be. We were on a big ol ship from Stockholm to Helsinki and I was off my face on wine and vodka and gin. After a drunken dinner I wandered up the promenade babbling away, somehow managing to lose everyone so spent the next hour going up and down elevators and getting rather worried and wandering into plants. Rhiannon finally rescued me. Next it was off to the karaoke bar and we did a cracking rendition of Dancing Queen. Nooo! Not karaoke! I don't want to be one of those silly young things on tour, WHAT HAVE I BECOME!!

I cannae find anything on this Finnish keyboard. Here have some squiggles ¤¤¤ÄÖÅ.

Best thing about these Scandinavian countries, they make you pay for plastic bags at the supermarket. They are not afraid to think about the future. Hurrah!

It's 6.14am here in Copenhagen, I had to get away from the snoring girl in our room. Imagine the sound of a vacuum cleaner, sucking large amounts of snot and saliva, in and out iiiin and ouuut. That's her unique brand of nocturnal noise.

Anyway, yesterday was brilliant. I will edit this when I get home with proper place names and photos, right now I am writing half asleep. We started the day off at the royal palace square thingy. Was just thinking it was a little dull when a swish black car zooms across the square. Who was at the wheel?

"It's MARY!" squealed an Aussie guy in our group. "It's Australia's Crown Princess Mary!"

Holy fuck it was. A dozen people swooped after her, yelling mary mary mary! I refused to run after her (that wasn't just due to laziness, really). I got one distant shot before shouting after everyone, "Leave her alone, you freaks! Don't chase princesses in cars! You all know what happened to Diana!"

People are still Mary mad here. Pubs have Danish and Aussie flags. Hundreds of people forked out 40 kroner to see her wedding dress on display (we did!). Locals have been even nicer to us when they hear our accent.

We checked out the resistance museum, sat in the park and couldnøt believe we left our sunscreen and glasses in the hostel. Did some window shopping, went to the museum of erotica. FINALLY i get to go to a museum of erotica. It was mostly informative and amusing, but then you get to this room with dozens of TVs playing pornos and realise you're the only tourist among many lonely men with slightly glazed expressions.

Next on to Tivoli http://www.tivoli.dk/composite-297.htm Where the hell is the thingies on this Danish keyboard? We strolled around watching kiddies throw tantrums and people screaming on roller coasters. Then we noticed large crowds gathered round the concert hall. Apparently it was the 70th birthday of the Queen's hubby. There were photographers prowling with lenses as big as the World's Biggest Penis i'd seen at the Erotica Museum.

Sure enough, Princess Mary and that gorgeous hunk of her Crown Prince hubby came walking along the gardens. I whipped out the camera and started filming. I have 20 seconds of papparazzi elbows, cheering kiddies and brief glimpses of the lovely couple. I chased her down the path like a true pro (but keeping a respectful distance, unlike some vultures), mostly getting my shoes. Then the Queen and her hubby arrived and everyone stopped chasing and clapped politely instead.

When we met up with our group later on, they had seen her after the concert, so they had beautiful close up magazineish shots of her waving. I fumed in a pot of envy until I realised my shitty video meant more to me than a perfect headshot, I'd captured glimpses of Mary's bewildered and slightly overwhelmed expression as the crowds went bezerk.

It was a rockin day, I can't believe I am finally on holiday. So this is why we worked those stupid 7 day weeks. Here are some squiggles on the Danish keyboard æ æ ø ø åå. Take care, groovers. Today we're off to Stockholm.

I'm going on holidays for a wee while. I'll pop in for brief bursts of drivel when possible. Meanwhile, everyone have a chat in the comments -- tell me where you're from and how life is treating you. Stay happy!