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Image taken on 2009-04-11 21:22:05 by Wootang01.
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target = “_new” rel = “nofollow” href = “http://www.buydiamondearringsonline.org/”> buy earrings that you are in love is. Gift of a memory that lasts a lifetime is a gift like no other. Diamonds are in many ways it’s nice unique. Women love them and their men also need to know. Buying diamond earrings for yourself and a treatment, as delicious as chocolate.

If you buy your diamond earrings, you should consider the Internet as an opportunity. You can now shop around the world without leaving your home. The ability to act has certainly increased over the last ten years. The Better Business Bureau is a trusted site that makes it safer for the customers to make online purchases. What they do is to websites as a trusted member of the Better Business Bureau to register. then monitor their progress. Then you can use to file a complaint or to see if anyone else has filed a complaint against a company online and offline. Here is a site http://www.bbb.org Although you can can not physically touch the earrings you can at least the consolation of knowing in your head, you have done your research. You are looking for is the diamond earrings come with much less stress and the ability to visit more in less time. You should rely on other customer reviews before you buy. There are so many different colors of diamonds to choose from. Sort tested as black, pink and yellow are just a few. Size, style and color, all of you Whether shopping online or downloaded for that special diamond earrings price range of under a hundred dollars to over a million. It depends (ct vs. example.10ct. Helped.) Everything from the size, color and cut of the diamond Remember when you buy diamond earrings, looking to buy treated as if the person you purchase them is the sense of a diamond, to vote.
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Learn how to buy diamond earrings

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Image taken on 2008-11-08 21:48:41 by Tillie Ariantho.

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by Wootang01

Why You Should Invest in Pink Diamond Earrings  

Article by Niurka Davis

Pink diamond earrings are racing to the top of the lists when it comes to a colored diamond. Although the clear diamond is still the top purchased colored yet, the increase in colored diamonds is going through the roof, beginning with celebrity purchases as well as socialites.

Many women cling to the pink color regardless, because of course it’s a “girly” color that many people correlate with women. With that being said, there are many women, including stars like Victoria Beckham and J-lo who are known to rock a beautiful pink diamond. Pink diamond earrings give elegance to a woman while still keeping it sexy since pink is a color that is correlated to females. In order to step out of the boundaries and give the white diamond earrings a kick, you must be confident to wear the pink stones. The girl who wears pink diamond earrings is the perfect combination of girly, and intellectual. The pink diamond is a very rare color and is expected to be extinct by 2017.

One of the newest trends nowadays is to purchase laboratory made pink diamonds. Although they are not the real thing, it is almost impossible to tell the difference by the naked eye. These are obviously much lower in cost and it opens up the door to allow you to get other popular and rare colors like black, blue, and yellow.These pink stones are very hard to find, and often times are tinted with other colors. Remember that the purity of the diamond is the most important aspect, and the ones that have the least tinting of another color are the most expensive and rarest. Every girl should definitely invest in pink diamonds not only because they are feminine and beautiful, but also because they are pink, a girly girl’s favorite and of course diamonds…a girl’s best friend!

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About the Author

Niurka Davis talks about the latest women trends and is a fashionista!

More Black Diamond Earrings Articles

Check out these Black Diamond Earrings images:

4 surprisegood (Miamai)

Image by Edith Ogleby
dame-edith.blogspot.com/2010/12/pose-revelation-props-and…

Dress: Mimikri – Nanette wine
Hair: Bliss – Queen, Vanille
Glasses: Wrigglesworth – Cat Eye Glasses
Gloves: Icing – Camera Girl Opera Gloves
Rings: Paper Couture – Diamonds and Pearl Ring, Leather Blossom Ring
Earrings: Paper Couture – Diamond Pearl Menagerie Earrings
Shoes: Paper Couture – Platform Pump, black
Stockings: The Rural Route – Varicose Veins with Support Pantyhose

Poses: Miamai – I was only dreaming, from the Props and Poses Fair

8 yay poses (Miamai)

Image by Edith Ogleby
dame-edith.blogspot.com/2010/12/pose-revelation-props-and…

Dress: Mimikri – Nanette wine
Hair: Bliss – Queen, Vanille
Glasses: Wrigglesworth – Cat Eye Glasses
Gloves: Icing – Camera Girl Opera Gloves
Rings: Paper Couture – Diamonds and Pearl Ring, Leather Blossom Ring
Earrings: Paper Couture – Diamond Pearl Menagerie Earrings
Shoes: Paper Couture – Platform Pump, black
Stockings: The Rural Route – Varicose Veins with Support Pantyhose

Poses: Miamai – I was only dreaming, from the Props and Poses Fair

A few nice Black Diamond Earrings images I found:

The English Sky

Image by Wootang01
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.

Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80′s and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.

Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.

11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul’s is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer – couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I’ll test for next time.

Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch – the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!

Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one’s eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.

My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey – on sale, of course – for good measure.

I’m sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I’ve been verily impressed with what I’ve seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace – his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.

For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold – 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I’ve had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.

Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket – if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That’s how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.

The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating – the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.

12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned – China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one’s mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!

We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn’t as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.

I celebrated Jesus’ resurrection at the St. Andrew’s Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that’s what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 – what is that to you?

Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that’s Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde’s Wherry, I’ve had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.

I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp’s DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.

My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history – the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering – and photographing – into every nook and cranny.

13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I’ve seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white – the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.

People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.

I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.

Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city’s love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.

Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.

I’m nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.

Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba – repeated in clever variants – and parodies of other masters’ works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson – I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.

14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.

Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge – for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.

I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn’t dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we’ve grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere – London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn’t add up for me.

I’m in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.

Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street – yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle – they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!

Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air – fantastic! Taliban beware!

15.4.09
I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening; don’t know when I’ll be back in England again. I’ll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I’m grateful for God’s many blessings on this trip.

On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley’s home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine – I’m happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.

John Wesley’s home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display – I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.

I found Samuel Johnson’s house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.

There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!

I regretfully couldn’t stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen’s take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.

I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies – I got no game – booyah!

Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn’t make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.

At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.

That’s all for England!

Shadow on a Board

Image by Wootang01
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.

Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80′s and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.

Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.

11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul’s is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer – couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I’ll test for next time.

Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch – the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!

Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one’s eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.

My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey – on sale, of course – for good measure.

I’m sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I’ve been verily impressed with what I’ve seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace – his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.

For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold – 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I’ve had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.

Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket – if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That’s how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.

The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating – the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.

12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned – China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one’s mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!

We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn’t as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.

I celebrated Jesus’ resurrection at the St. Andrew’s Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that’s what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 – what is that to you?

Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that’s Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde’s Wherry, I’ve had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.

I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp’s DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.

My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history – the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering – and photographing – into every nook and cranny.

13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I’ve seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white – the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.

People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.

I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.

Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city’s love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.

Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.

I’m nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.

Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba – repeated in clever variants – and parodies of other masters’ works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson – I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.

14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.

Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge – for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.

I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn’t dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we’ve grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere – London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn’t add up for me.

I’m in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.

Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street – yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle – they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!

Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air – fantastic! Taliban beware!

15.4.09
I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening; don’t know when I’ll be back in England again. I’ll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I’m grateful for God’s many blessings on this trip.

On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley’s home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine – I’m happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.

John Wesley’s home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display – I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.

I found Samuel Johnson’s house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.

There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!

I regretfully couldn’t stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen’s take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.

I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies – I got no game – booyah!

Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn’t make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.

At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.

That’s all for England!

On a Rope in London

Image by Wootang01
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.

Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80′s and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.

Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.

11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul’s is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer – couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I’ll test for next time.

Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch – the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn’t seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!

Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one’s eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.

My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey – on sale, of course – for good measure.

I’m sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I’ve been verily impressed with what I’ve seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace – his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.

For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold – 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I’ve had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.

Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket – if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That’s how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.

The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating – the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.

12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned – China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one’s mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!

We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn’t as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.

I celebrated Jesus’ resurrection at the St. Andrew’s Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that’s what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 – what is that to you?

Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that’s Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde’s Wherry, I’ve had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.

I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp’s DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.

My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history – the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering – and photographing – into every nook and cranny.

13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I’ve seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white – the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.

People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.

I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.

Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city’s love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.

Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.

I’m nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.

Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba – repeated in clever variants – and parodies of other masters’ works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson – I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.

14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.

Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge – for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.

I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn’t dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we’ve grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere – London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn’t add up for me.

I’m in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.

Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street – yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle – they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!

Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air – fantastic! Taliban beware!

15.4.09
I’m leaving on a jet plane this evening; don’t know when I’ll be back in England again. I’ll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I’m grateful for God’s many blessings on this trip.

On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley’s home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine – I’m happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.

John Wesley’s home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display – I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.

I found Samuel Johnson’s house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.

There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!

I regretfully couldn’t stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen’s take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.

I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies – I got no game – booyah!

Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn’t make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.

At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.

That’s all for England!

by Wootang01

Black Pearl Earrings & Necklaces – The Most Stunning Jewelry  

Article by Lan Toma

Pearls are those timeless gems that are adored universally by almost every woman. These come in a variety of colors, whether crested by nature or processed by human beings for the purpose of jewelry designing. The exotic pearl jewelry, which is created by using black pearls, is believed to make a woman appear sensuous. It is for this reason that women, especially the celebs all over the world are embracing the fascinating black pearl jewelry as part of their essential accessories.

The rare and beautiful ‘Black Pearl’ hails from French Polynesia, namely Tahiti and the Cook Islands, and continues to be in high demand. However, fewer people can afford them. Black freshwater pearl necklaces have the same fascinating multi-color rainbow sparkle but at much more reasonable prices; most of these pearls also contain rich purple tones. Black pearls give the wearers a mysterious and extraordinarily attractive look.

There are some highly regarded, expert pearl wholesalers who offer exquisitely crafted, black pearl jewelry to suit some of the most refined tastes. Having their own pearl farms and in-house manufacturing units, they are able to offer an incredible variety of loose pearls as well as finished pearl jewelry at unbelievable wholesale prices.

Black pearls offered by them are available in different shapes, shades, and sizes – Round black pearls, black Button pearls, black Rice pearls, black Nugget pearls, black Coin pearls, peacock and black Potato pearls, Cross pearl in black, black Biwa pearl strands, top-drilled peanut black pearls etc. Black pearls with slight imperfections, also called the ‘Diamonds of the Pearl Kingdom’ are also available. These are elegant and can blend into any traditional or modern outfit.

Customers can conveniently shop for magnificent black pearl matching sets consisting of black pearl necklace, black pearl bracelet, and black pearl earrings, stylish necklaces with black Coin, Rice or Biwa pearls, with either 925 sterling silver or 14k gold pearl clasps, black pearl earrings in the choicest styles and designs – from the classical studs, through to fashionable Long dangling earrings, Leverback earrings, to Chandelier earrings, and lots more. Innumerable options are available for the jewelry designers as well. From loose black round large-sized pearls that are undrilled, to half-drilled black pearls that can be used for making earrings and pendants, they can find almost everything.

Because of the fact that the rich, beautiful black pearls accentuate any complexion, occasion and outfit, women all over the world love to possess the unique jewelry as their valuable collections!

About the Author

Lan Toma is a writer for http://www.OrientalPearls.net, a branch of C.D. Plus, Inc.- a California corporation, which provides cultured freshwater pearls and fine pearl jewelry directly from pearl farms and operates an in-house manufacturing unit at low wholesale cost. Its headquarters are in San Diego with offices in China and representatives worldwide. For more information, please visit http://www.orientalpearls.net

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Image taken on 2009-04-13 23:56:11 by Wootang01.
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Image taken on 2010-12-02 04:38:46 by Edith Ogleby.
S? are m? s dark, but people say that does not shine so bright. . But my back? Ilo is that they are diamonds! ? No duty? An shine like a diamond white? I’m curious because Im going to get black diamond earrings

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Image taken on 2009-04-15 04:12:55 by Wootang01.

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10k Gold Square Black Diamond Earrings Studs – 0.10 cttw

These stunning diamond earrings are crafted in gleaming 10k white gold and studded with rich black diamonds. These black diamond encrusted stud earrings have a simple, modern and elegant design. A look inspired by today’s hottest design. The unsex look makes these diamond stud earrings a perfect accessory for both male and female. Get these black diamond earrings today to express yourself in true style with the simple, yet chic look. With screw-backs to secure your valuable diamond earrings.

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• Measures: 1 1/2″L x 3/4″L

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Moroccan Black Diamond Earrings

Image taken on 2010-06-11 23:10:02 by Caer.

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www.buy.com These gorgeous studs are fashioned in 14K white gold and feature 1.00 carat of round brilliant cut blue diamonds.
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Black Diamond Earrings

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9.4.09Flyvningen arrived on time, and the twelve hours, and went on board quickly and without incident. To ensure that the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary igen.Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The device comes directly from the sterile 80′s and is smaller than the eyesore of a flat background, the rhythm of human activity that seeks the rush to the fore. There is probably faces from all races that the creation of a rich tapestry of humanity that is refreshing, if not quite resuscitation after swimming so long sealed in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.Internetadgang in England, it seems . Nothing is free, everything is unheard of wireless hotspots on desktop terminals monetized. I think Hong Kong has spoiled me with his large, free access to the information super motorvejen.11.4.09Trods stay in a room with five other backpackers, I slept well. The mattress and pillow is solid, keep my ear plugs the noise outside, and sleeping is as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as perhaps a sad rainy day when you are. Overall, the St. Paul’s is an excellent place for sociable, adventurous, and stingy city leaders stay – Couch Surfing can be an alternative, I’ll try next I will Connie, and I devoured at Borough Market, was where it all sorts of delicious , hearty meals. It was definitely a European flavor to the food fair, simmering sausages were everywhere, and so the meat was plentiful, and real, so the dairy delicacies were in the form of countless rounds of cheese stacked high behind the checkered tabletops. We, of course, these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol, which washed out of cups like amber waterfall flowed. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which like warm, rancid taste punch – the perfect tonic for a London drizzle today, I think. We have killed later that afternoon in the pub, shooting breeze while imbibing more diminutive half a liter in the process. First crush not seem like a bad thing more, especially when you have fun in the company of friends, I can do more by four clock in the afternoon why the English is not so much! Earlier in the day we visited the Tate Modern appreciate. His turbine room lived up to its reputation as the most prominent with a giant spider, complete with a pear-shaped cocoon, anchoring the retrospective. The permanent galleries, was to eat a treat that you in the eye. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled chambers in the upper floors with products from its supple wrists, and I ended up being a big fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for the abstract art and their pointless pictures that I feel is missing from both Motivation and følelser.Min first ride yesterday morning, what’s Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. The towers tenderer of the surrounding neighborhood, but for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business is growing late, but when the armory opened shop, and dozens of fans to her like bees around a hive. I also took a gift-buying mission, and wound up buying a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a shirt – on sale, of course – for a good foranstaltning.Jeg sit in the Westminster Abbey Museum now resting my weary legs and strained back. So far I’m really with what I have seen such a confluence of history and beauty impressed me before, it would take days to absorb everything, because unfortunately I can only a few hours off. My favorite part of the monastery are poets corner, where no less a literary light than rest in peace Samuel Johnson – his bust reaffirms its local presence, so alive biografi.Til in his lunch was taken prisoner, I had a steak and beer pie served with mashed potatoes made with a Guinness Extra Cold – 2 degrees Celsius colder, says the bartender. It went well, like all other dishes I have had in England, and certainly now I’m used to being drunk at 2:30. In addition, inspired Liverpool to play football against Blackburn, and my lunch was fuldstændig.Have had my fill of football, I decided to try my ticket scalping at Stamford Bridge to skip and instead went to the British Museum to their extensive collections of . Inspect On the way I noticed a theater, the doors wide open and lets customers. With hard work, I subsequently checked the show times on a performance that was to begin the set, and then hurried to the box office to make a discounted ticket – if you call a ticket £ 40, an agreement. So I have a room to see Hairspray in the West End.Showet took was worth £ 40. The music was addictive, and set design and effects were not as strong as corny nice stimulant – the vibrant background lights were at once brilliant and penetrating. The actors, who were well animated oozes charisma, as they danced and delivered lines soaked humor. Hair spray is a high quality production and absolute anbefales.12.4.09Ved breakfast I have against a man who told me that the land was returned to Hong Kong TV – China or Japan. It was pretty funny. Then he began to spit my food as he spoke, not even aware of my breakfast container # where the fruits of his inner child was to be set. I think I understand the convention days to cover a mouth when speaking and chewing at the same time, we have actually spoken to London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration act, which a huge leap of faith for all society that is inclusive to try to accept all types of people. It was not that the British tried unsuccessfully, all things are for all people, Spanish uses with visitors from Spain, with German and Germans themselves, Hindi with Indians, whether in Hindi as their mother tongue, not even taking into account an absurd idea on international adoption to promote their language and thus hold very English in English hands and his polyglot proud to practice “their language. In fact, the attempt to take advantage of London by the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge and to seek a common understanding of a ubiquitous English accent is an example and basis for any by.Jeg world celebrated the resurrection of Jesus at St. Andrew’s Church Street in Cambridge. The county of this Baptist church was warm and friendly, and I met some of them, including a visitor (Halliday) Linguistics researchers from Zhongshan University in Guangzhou, in fact, had my little City University of Hong Kong visited in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and faithful in smaller numbers than the “progressives” services on one of the charismatic, evangelical churches BHP, but that makes this part of the body of Christ is unique, as well as brief, was the message that as a PowerPoint slide, and no less informative, the power of words is in my life spoken a question from John 21: 22 -?. What is the Great for you trees, exquisite lawns and old, pointed high schools, sit it Cambridge will be available here, sipping a half pint of Woodforde’s Wherry, I had a relaxed, if not emotional day so far, my only task absorb run around and the green is like a sponge, slæb.Jeg camera back to the sublime beer, a glass of Sharp DoomBar enjoy my fish and chips come from drinking age is 18, but anyone whose face is still evidence of youthful genius carded likely these days get, “said the bartender me. The youth drinking culture here is almost like the university drinking culture in USA.Mit twisted stay in Cambridge, relaxing and aimless, as it may be, is about the late lunch after this. I’m not sure if there to see something other than the American cemetery lies, just two miles impossible I have a wonderful time in this city, and are grateful for access to its living history -. the people here should prove remarkable patience and tolerance, what with so many tourists strolling on the street, saw – and photographed – in all corners of .13.4.09 There are no garbage cans, but I’ve seen on the road a lot more races couples in which men tend to do – so women, a light ethnicity, usually a kind of Asian and Indian as well as some black dudes with white dudes kyllinger.Folk stops here Doors are also at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it seems like they go out on a limb, only to waiting for someone to take the responsibility for the door of those points where I want such a random relieve rush byrde.Jeg British Museum visited this morning. The two hours I spent there was not myself yet to have no justice, because it really too much to understand, fascinating are enough stuff on all day long last, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from ancient times, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea and Mesopotamia, is a merit of the British Empire, without their plunder Most of this fantastic booty would be inaccessible to our responsibilities, better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all supermarket greatest in history as the human eye, and the worst is yet evt in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the trash . Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at the Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a wonderfully plush and a certificate in this city of love for art. The ballet itself was satisfactory, the first half better than the other, which nimble dancers displayed their skill in phenomenal, of all places, covered in a cemetery in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy cemetery, seems strange gjorde.To ladies from Kent friendly convinced me to her home town to visit in the morning when they told me the authentic, “work” Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting venter.Jeg home of Charles Darwin is nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and marvel at the wealth of British Ale and storage, made the British a great achievement for the world by the infinite variety of can be enjoyed with a low alcohol session beer, breakfast, open lunch, tea and dinner and disservice is: In addition flimsy on this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer my inner alcoholic, I feel that my putting first fifteen, almost ten years after the fact, I have to run a little harder back in Hong Kong, if I burn all that fuel out MaltyIrene I suggested stopping at the National Art Gallery, since we were in the area and it was well laid out one hours The gallery is currently an exhibition of Picasso, non-ticket part of the feature seductive renderings, including David spies Bathsheba -. in fantasy flavors repeated -. and parodies of other masterpieces The main gallery is home to two magnificent portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be the favorites of mine, he lives in a close friend of Samuel Johnson – I passed Boswells, where his namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the Opera House 14.4.09Jeg bad last night and went through my list, all. you raise to the Lord. “The good feeling that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and the lives of my brothers and søstre.Uden doubt when I was very sad as if a spirit in the land of the living in a place where religious fanaticism, it seems, is a thing of the past, a little to give away for many in obscure corners of the centuries-old cathedrals, the more expensive tourist destination as liberating home of worship in those days, are hidden. Yes, I have not seen anyone praying outside the Easter service I attended in Cambridge – try to ecstatic moment in a magnificent church, so, would you believe it took only three dozen spirited them the people of England. and Europe in general, it is my hope to get away Word locked, he referred to the vault of silence in her heart. Can it be taken in a sudden pause before meals and sleep in the morning fresh and cool, quiet nights. There is still hope to rise to a revival in this place for faith as the glorious sun every morning. Love God, to save them in order to deliver on that day, it sikkert.Jeg ask what London thinks that if something whether its police, that a wine in the shade, took roots in every corner of daily life, from Explanations of the terrorist underground, all of London’s eagerly begs to report suspicious things pair of dogs by Euston walk. What this does is all the more incredible that the U.S., the unyielding nemesis fledged rebel order dare, it is not their citizens bombarded with alarmist find these days, especially with Obama in office, maybe we are as grown in recent years, doubtful benefit of the surrender of civil liberties to the state, have our bags checked everywhere – the London Eye, and do not check the Royal Opera House, London bags, while doing the museum; Hairspray think somehow not that ‘t add up mig. Jeg is a majestic book shop in New Street, Birmingham, and at least confirm my suspicions, there are so many books about the death of Christianity in England, there are books that try to kill Christianity everywhere. I .. yet found a wonderful biography of John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and sub devil of CS Lewis, I can pick up tidligere.Frokost Sally was pleasant and cheerful, we ate in a restaurant nearby French New Street – yes, Birmingham is a cultural capital! Sally and I tried their omelette, while her friend had fish without chips. Conversation was easy, it was reckless and so was our memories of those fleeting moments in our first year in Hong Kong, it’s amazing how friendships, the sun suddenly with a smile on your recommendation, I’m on my way to Warwick Castle -. so they suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they can not take on additional tours Visitors from the office staff informed me, much to my disappointment! Visit Warwick Castle really done a fantastic day. The castle, parts of which by William the Conqueror in 1068 were introduced, as a tacky tourist trap as a careful preservation of history, sometimes a silly version of Ocean Park and others with dignity, devotion to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle is aimed at all visitors, and not surprisingly, that the joy of the audience were all one big cast Trebuchet siege engine for the 5:00 performance, a fire ball high and far into the air – fantastic Taliban 15/04/2009 I keep on a jet had to leave today evening, do not know when I got back to England again I will miss this quirky but endearing place, and that I must miss Irene and Tom!. Who so generously welcomed me into their homes, fed me and mine is some of her toilet and bathroom for granted. I am grateful for many blessings God tur.På on this route today is a trip to John Wesley at home followed. Visit to the Imperial War Museum Earlier today I have a tube Oilatum, perhaps a week too late, I recommended Teri use to deal with this stubborn, dermal weakness of mine a lot – I’m happy to report that my skin is stopped græde.John Wesley at home alive and healthy. Services even in the church instead of every day, and its crypt, so far from a cellar for the dead is a bright, spacious museum, in which all things Wesley is on screen – I never noticed how much of an icon in England, he at the height of this insanity Idol, ironic in itself, it must be just as popular as the Beatles at their peak The house itself is a multi-. Storey buildings with narrow, steep staircases and spacious rooms in the 18 decorated century mode.Jeg Samuel Johnson House was hidden in a labyrinth of red brick along Fleet Street. as the home of the man who has written the English dictionary and its tireless love of obscure words were an inspiration to my own lexical obsession, this by far, the highlight of my trip to England! The best is definitely saved to sidst.Der a wealth of portraits hang around the house as an ornament on a tree. Everything has its own likeness history, meticulously recounted on crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several fine pictures in the house. I have developed a special affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, the Boswell writes: “His person was short, roughly his face and vulgar, his manner, that a scholar awkwardly, the simple gentleman, it looks like I could. a flattering description of me, I was not able to stop trying to be in England curry, I think the canteen CityU have to do to us on a plate. However, I have the right to object, with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff to me they checked pretty was in red, flirt light powder on the cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said, her small, delicate face, made in command of a fine British accent it positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only do they me the aisle seat, but she had to return the head to my fawning for happiness, it must be a pro at this by nu.Jeg saw her again as she pulled double-duty to collect tickets before boarding. She remembered my Search for curry, and the haze of infatuation, where regular was carried out, I fumbled my words as a sloppy child who had too much punch, I’m just an amateur, unfortunately, “Oliver Goldsmith” with the ladies -. I have no game – Super Some final, consequential bits: Because chave no longer Burberry sells stylish baseball caps, because the IRA, are waste containers not more goods on the streets of London, and thus, the streets and the underground city is a mess dirty, and because of other terrorists from the far more barren land go, hit by a Western airport, the boredom of superficial processes does not imply that, I feel safer in my invisible fjender.Til some point I was so many Indians, who saw in Heathrow, I not just Mumbai have confused. Their presence has surprised me, because the proportion of the population surely must be less than their share of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious setting preload. Whatever they do a fantastic job with the airport control superficial and general absurd amusing and witty, if not Too taktløs.Det England

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Image taken on 2010-07-15 18:00:21 by Caer.
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Image taken on 2010-10-19 23:26:07 by Caer.

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Image taken on 2009-01-29 22:13:30 by LacieCakes.
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