We all present these glossy lives to the world; coffee cups presented to dewy sunrises, champagne in airport lounges, luxurious restaurants that cost more than they should and share the blue skies days of exploration. I'm as guilty as anyone. But, what about behind those scenes? Those days where the wind is so strong you can't instastory for talking (I'm looking at you Cornwall), when travel mistakes happen (like in Vienna where I accidentally booked our trip a day short) or when everyone asks you what your next trip will be and you sheepishly have to answer 'er, not sure'. So I thought I'd get a few things off my chest, and confess a few of the reasons why I probably shouldn't be calling myself a travel blogger. And yes, these are all very much first world problems. 1. I hate photographs of myself. Ironic, no? Especially when one of the first rules of blogging is all about the cult of personality. I just don't like them. I wish I did, but there are few times that I fancy a photo and even less when I like the result. 2. We nip into a MacDonalds at least once every trip. It has now become a tradition between nicer restaurants to nip in and order a Big Mac and fries at some point of our trip but especially in Europe for some reason. Why do their MacDonalds meals taste better? 3. Pastels aren't really my shade. Again, I wish I could be super girly, twirling in gossamer skirts painted in spring shades but I'm just not. My colour palette is decidedly autumnal/jewel hued and usually sticks to a scarf draped around my neck in a hopefully fashionable manner. And I'm totally ok with that. 4. I once travelled all the way to New Zealand and back (stopping in 3 countries enroute) without a lens cap on my brand new, fairly expensive camera. This is in no way a #humblebrag about the trip, but a comment on how impractical I can be and how careful I also am. I lovingly wrapped my camera in a soft scarf every day for 3 weeks, growled under my breath at anyone who looked like they might jostle me and at one point found... How long did it take the writer to get New Zealand, stopping in 3 countries en route? - several hours - several months - not enough information - several days
several days

TL:DR: I un-professionally get mad at a customer and verbally slam the door on her way out. I was working a shift at a chain cafe one afternoon in England, it was during the lunch rush, so we had a back up of customers lined up to the exit. See the problem with the chain is that all of our customers mostly range from midlife crisis to half-a-foot in the grave, so once a customer lines up, they don't leave and they extend the queue. Plus this is a chain cafe so I've got a manager who's constantly on my back to speed up because someone is on her back to drive numbers up: this results in the line putting stress on my air-hostess smile, but they don't call it work for nothing. Now I'm not the only one stressed, a customer lines up during lunch, they're hungry and wish that Euclidean laws would suspend themselves so that they did not have to deal with the fact that I can't deal with a customer at the speed of light. Well one eldritch horror declares that my coffee took too long and does her rendition of the 1933 Hitler speech to the rest of the customers with an addendum that she will take her business elsewhere. Now my chain are pretty big in England, so if a customer wants to slap me around with a 'customer is always right' the script dictates that I do everything in my power to make sure they come back, and Cthulu knows this, well: I'm stressed, I don't like her face and she's given me an opportunity for me to give her the polite 'fuck off'. All I say is 'Good' and move on to the next customer. Hitler-lite phones my corporation to voice a complaint, so a suit comes out and asks the team who did it, I fess up so I can save the time and not have a reason to hate one of my co-workers. I get a lecture and a warning, the end. When did the incident occur? - In 1933 - During the lunch rush - When the line first started - not enough information
During the lunch rush

(Question)
It was a good feast. Celenda's manservant had purchased two of the biggest and strongest oxen in Fena Kef and they now roasted over the hall's two huge braziers. The smell filled Celenda's nostrils. She closed her eyes and laid back on her silk divan, enjoying the sights and sounds. Her finger fiddled with a torn seam on the divan's armrest and her pleasure faded. She would have flogged her seamstress for allowing such a thing but the woman had fled a year ago. She could barely afford clothing acceptable to a woman of her position, though few could say for certain what that position was, so she simply wore less clothes overall. She raised her arms behind her back and let the warmth of the braziers flow over her body. Though the number shrank, many still enjoyed Celenda's frequent celebrations. Some laughed and shouted on one side, some coupled in the dark shadows and behind silk curtains. Most feasted and drank and everyone partook in the red lotus. Celenda beckoned a thin slave boy, one of her last few, and he came holding a bronze bowl. Dried red leaves covered the bottom of the bowl. 'Why is this bowl not full?' she shouted at the boy. He cringed but she could tell he was not really frightened. She could not afford to injure or kill him and everyone knew it. She slapped him, but not hard. If she hit too hard she would find herself with one less slave along with her diminishing supply of the red leaf. Instantly the thoughts of the crumbling villa, the torn furniture, and the diminishing coffers fled from her mind. Euphoria flowed in. She felt it in her fingers and toes. What probably has magical powers? - not enough information - The bowl. - The red leaves. - The divan.
(Answer)
The red leaves.