What is it about sunshine?
Its rays have worked their way into my psyche and are trying to fill all those half empty cups that the long winter has left lingering there.
A walk through the city at lunchtime is warming to this long frozen optimist's core, and the dowdy buildings of London almost wink at you, knowing that they are bathing in the golden hue of spring.
The season is something to behold, and our messy cares can be washed away, for a time, if we let them.
A pair of oysters and Kentish wine with Laura, a quick coffee on Fleet Street with Gel, a punch in the arm from one of my siblings. Any one of my absent carebears would make the picture more perfect than the ones that are here already do.
He that will enjoy the brightness of sunshine, must quit the coolness of the shade.
SAMUEL JOHNSON
Friday, March 20, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
I feel it all
My moon my man.
Eternal life is now on my trail.
Got me my requiem coffin man, just need one last nail.
There's no time for hatred, only questions.
Where is love, where is happiness?
What is life? Where is peace?
When will I find the strength to bring me what I need?
Tell me, where is the truth in what your prophet has said?
You better turn around and blow your kiss good bye.
Too young to hold on, to old to just break free and run.
You never give me your money, you only give me your funny paper.
I never give you my number, I only give you my situation. And in the middle of negotiation you break down.
But oh, that magic feeling. Know where to go.
One sweet dream, pick up the the bags and get in the limousine.
Soon we'll be away from here, step on the gas and wipe that tear away.
One sweet dream came true today.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7. All good children go to heaven.
Here comes the sun.
*crickets*
Eternal life is now on my trail.
Got me my requiem coffin man, just need one last nail.
There's no time for hatred, only questions.
Where is love, where is happiness?
What is life? Where is peace?
When will I find the strength to bring me what I need?
Tell me, where is the truth in what your prophet has said?
You better turn around and blow your kiss good bye.
Too young to hold on, to old to just break free and run.
You never give me your money, you only give me your funny paper.
I never give you my number, I only give you my situation. And in the middle of negotiation you break down.
But oh, that magic feeling. Know where to go.
One sweet dream, pick up the the bags and get in the limousine.
Soon we'll be away from here, step on the gas and wipe that tear away.
One sweet dream came true today.
1,2,3,4,5,6,7. All good children go to heaven.
Here comes the sun.
*crickets*
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Jigsaw Puzzles
For a long time in London, all the pieces have fit together. Suddenly, with the removal of a few; a couple of dear friends, the good time certainty that a stable economy intrinsically provides, the realisation of how far away the most important people in my life seem to be, I'm feeling a bit like that lingering awkward piece who is left in the jigsaw box.
I suppose it is the late winter blues. I am vitamin D deprived: unlikely to see sustained sun for a while given the British spring's propensity for spontaneous downpour and billowing grey.
Let me describe for you this homesickness.
If you think about it too hard it settles like bricks on your chest and feels like your heart is broken. It is the total, utter, complete longing for your loved ones and knowing that a simple touch from your sister, a hug from your mum, an understanding look from your grandmother, could lift the bricks away.
It is the frustration of being angry at yourself for not being able to derive satisfaction from loving the friends where you are and the life that you have made. And it is also the crippling and paradoxical knowledge that the grass always grows greener on the south side, and that it aint nearly so green when you are standing on it..
Things feel remarkably like a house of cards. One strong breeze could blow me over and take me with it. I said earlier this year that I thought 'Rambling Woman was a good song for me. I still do. Reconciling my current bout of missing the Oz will eventually subside. The routine will iron out the wrinkles, and what is left won't be half bad. But until the slings and arrows will let me off their rollercoaster, I will feel like somebody has angled a magnifying glass right at my heart and is burning holes in it with the thin and wintry English sun.
A little dramatic perhaps, but at the moment, that's what it feels like.
I suppose it is the late winter blues. I am vitamin D deprived: unlikely to see sustained sun for a while given the British spring's propensity for spontaneous downpour and billowing grey.
Let me describe for you this homesickness.
If you think about it too hard it settles like bricks on your chest and feels like your heart is broken. It is the total, utter, complete longing for your loved ones and knowing that a simple touch from your sister, a hug from your mum, an understanding look from your grandmother, could lift the bricks away.
It is the frustration of being angry at yourself for not being able to derive satisfaction from loving the friends where you are and the life that you have made. And it is also the crippling and paradoxical knowledge that the grass always grows greener on the south side, and that it aint nearly so green when you are standing on it..
Things feel remarkably like a house of cards. One strong breeze could blow me over and take me with it. I said earlier this year that I thought 'Rambling Woman was a good song for me. I still do. Reconciling my current bout of missing the Oz will eventually subside. The routine will iron out the wrinkles, and what is left won't be half bad. But until the slings and arrows will let me off their rollercoaster, I will feel like somebody has angled a magnifying glass right at my heart and is burning holes in it with the thin and wintry English sun.
A little dramatic perhaps, but at the moment, that's what it feels like.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
The Perfect Pool Stance
On Sunday, whilst playing pool with the lovely lovely Templeman family, I had the privilege of being given a lesson on how to play properly, by a gent who had grown up around family-owned pool halls. Free of the illusion of competence that I had laboured under for, well, my whole life, I found my ability to pot the balls greatly improved; my enjoyment of this rather blokey game therefore, improved significantly as I perfected the stance which I had just been taught.
The perfect pool stance, as demonstrated to me, is not the most ladylike of things. Having partaken in several glasses of the lovely that afternoon though, I wasn't going to let this inhibit my efforts, denim mini skirt or no. Let me describe it to you. Please withhold your disagreement on this description until you've seen where I've gone with it. Thankyou.
So, the perfect stance should not ordinarily involve one foot in front of the other. Rather, you should have your knees approximately shoulder width apart. As you set your beady eyes on your target of choice you should squat, bottom poking out as required, to reach the desired height. You place your left hand on the table (if you play pool right handed), splay your fingers and push them firmly onto the felt. You lean forward on this hand, distributing your weight evenly between your legs and the table. Importantly, you should be nice and steady in this position and your weight distributed such that if someone should try to knock you over, they quite simply could not.
But the real power, the genius of the proper pool stance, is in the hand that directs the cue: that pumps it toward the imaginary ball just beyond the white, guiding it toward the stripe or the dot, the line or the spot, the big or the small - into the ivory netted pocket of glory.
I swear I must spend half of my life in la-la land, because when reflecting on my new found pool sharkdom (this is a slight overstatement of my ability, but as usual, you'll have to forgive me the occasional embellishment) I realised that the unladylike squatting bottom out fingers splayed arm of glory pool stance is rather like a metaphor for how I'd like life to pan out. Yes indeedy.
The base unshakable is the requisite resoluteness. It is the creator of confidence and the thing from which great achievement can stem. A successful person, in my 8-ball view of life, has this kind of base; a hand on the table and their legs at shoulderwidth. Not easy to shake, not easy to knock over, and kinda scary when they look over their shoulder at you: their head craned back toward the arm of glory.
But once you have acquired, perfected, and cultivated this base and feel at ease with your bottom sticking slightly out, you need to practice that loose grip on the cue. Resisting the temptation to hold it too tightly, your right hand directs the cue but also commands its exponential power, stabbing at that little white ball and sending it rolling to brighter prizes. It took some nerve, I found, to loosen my grip on the pool cue. I was so accustomed to clutching it, and pushing it over my not-nearly-splayed-enough fingers in the blind hope of getting 'one in', that it took something of an ideological leap for me to believe that speed, power, and accuracy could be achieved with a little relaxation. For it is the case that the generator of the flair, the doer of the magic (I mean of course, the 'arm of glory') though functionless in the absence of the solid base, cannot reach its potential without a bit of a 'devil may cares' attitude. A little que sera sera perhaps? Though actually not really, for the cluey pool player knows that to loosen that grip actually sures up the outcome. Aaaaah, seeee....it isn't what ever will be will be. Disengenously perfect.
I mentioned earlier the shooting at the imaginary ball. Rather than aiming for the white itself, my able teacher explained that it is preferable (and I learned far more powerful) to aim for an imagined ball that sits just beyond the white. That's the ball you actually want to hit; the cheeky little invisible ball, the elusive guest at the table whom your opponent cannot see. That, dear friends, is about aiming a wee bit higher, and doing the unexpected. Don't go for the white ball, go for his imaginary friend, and the results are far better, far quicker and far more precise than you would expect. It is not only the perfect stance, it is the strategy with which one combines it that makes the pool shark someone to contend with.
Anyway, with that, you, and indeed I, should be wondering whether this writer has finally lost the plot. My life is a game of billiards. Oui. Dear me, I can talk a load of rubbish.
The promise of competence at the pool table: February 2- January 0.
The commencement of French lessons: February 3- January 0.
The perfect pool stance, as demonstrated to me, is not the most ladylike of things. Having partaken in several glasses of the lovely that afternoon though, I wasn't going to let this inhibit my efforts, denim mini skirt or no. Let me describe it to you. Please withhold your disagreement on this description until you've seen where I've gone with it. Thankyou.
So, the perfect stance should not ordinarily involve one foot in front of the other. Rather, you should have your knees approximately shoulder width apart. As you set your beady eyes on your target of choice you should squat, bottom poking out as required, to reach the desired height. You place your left hand on the table (if you play pool right handed), splay your fingers and push them firmly onto the felt. You lean forward on this hand, distributing your weight evenly between your legs and the table. Importantly, you should be nice and steady in this position and your weight distributed such that if someone should try to knock you over, they quite simply could not.
But the real power, the genius of the proper pool stance, is in the hand that directs the cue: that pumps it toward the imaginary ball just beyond the white, guiding it toward the stripe or the dot, the line or the spot, the big or the small - into the ivory netted pocket of glory.
I swear I must spend half of my life in la-la land, because when reflecting on my new found pool sharkdom (this is a slight overstatement of my ability, but as usual, you'll have to forgive me the occasional embellishment) I realised that the unladylike squatting bottom out fingers splayed arm of glory pool stance is rather like a metaphor for how I'd like life to pan out. Yes indeedy.
The base unshakable is the requisite resoluteness. It is the creator of confidence and the thing from which great achievement can stem. A successful person, in my 8-ball view of life, has this kind of base; a hand on the table and their legs at shoulderwidth. Not easy to shake, not easy to knock over, and kinda scary when they look over their shoulder at you: their head craned back toward the arm of glory.
But once you have acquired, perfected, and cultivated this base and feel at ease with your bottom sticking slightly out, you need to practice that loose grip on the cue. Resisting the temptation to hold it too tightly, your right hand directs the cue but also commands its exponential power, stabbing at that little white ball and sending it rolling to brighter prizes. It took some nerve, I found, to loosen my grip on the pool cue. I was so accustomed to clutching it, and pushing it over my not-nearly-splayed-enough fingers in the blind hope of getting 'one in', that it took something of an ideological leap for me to believe that speed, power, and accuracy could be achieved with a little relaxation. For it is the case that the generator of the flair, the doer of the magic (I mean of course, the 'arm of glory') though functionless in the absence of the solid base, cannot reach its potential without a bit of a 'devil may cares' attitude. A little que sera sera perhaps? Though actually not really, for the cluey pool player knows that to loosen that grip actually sures up the outcome. Aaaaah, seeee....it isn't what ever will be will be. Disengenously perfect.
I mentioned earlier the shooting at the imaginary ball. Rather than aiming for the white itself, my able teacher explained that it is preferable (and I learned far more powerful) to aim for an imagined ball that sits just beyond the white. That's the ball you actually want to hit; the cheeky little invisible ball, the elusive guest at the table whom your opponent cannot see. That, dear friends, is about aiming a wee bit higher, and doing the unexpected. Don't go for the white ball, go for his imaginary friend, and the results are far better, far quicker and far more precise than you would expect. It is not only the perfect stance, it is the strategy with which one combines it that makes the pool shark someone to contend with.
Anyway, with that, you, and indeed I, should be wondering whether this writer has finally lost the plot. My life is a game of billiards. Oui. Dear me, I can talk a load of rubbish.
The promise of competence at the pool table: February 2- January 0.
The commencement of French lessons: February 3- January 0.
Monday, February 02, 2009
White Out
'For today it is snow day, and all those who awake to a footpath covered in black ice need not venture out into the streets of London.'
Fortunately, I have enough emergency supplies (icecream, miscellaneous frozen vegetables, soup) to withstand the 18 or so hours of testing snow conditions. Others who weren't so fortunate had to *sucks air through teeth* go outside!
I am being facetious of course.
The snow has fallen. The credit crunch is forgotten. 24 hours of Russian winds have turned even the most uptight of adults into a squealing, goofily, smiling child. Exquisite blankets of powder cloak the streets. At it's edges of course there is grey slush, but no matter: we don't care. We frolic in the parks and the streets. We slide down hills on makeshift sleds, ignore the numbness of our toes and make minimal efforts to get to work.
For mine, I spent the day trying to ascertain whether my flight would depart for Warsaw. It's moments like those that I know the Aussie in me will never be completely stamped out. Conditioning has not yet wiped out my faith in this country's infrastructure. Optimism persisted until the moment I was informed once and for all that I could finally enjoy my snowday because the flight was indeed, cancelled. 'That's terrible' I said whilst clenching my fists to punch the air with glee. I was free.
I have spent the rest of snow day tromping in to work to get some stuff, with a circuitous walk past St Pauls. Amazing. Snow covered and beautiful. I then tromped back via Redcliffe Square where I watched lots of people making snowmen and igloos. Delightful! Glorious! Snow!
I have since indulged in some White Out cooking. Chicken fillets a la Snowday now sit comfortably inside my tum along with some leftover vino. Heaven. Flight is rescheduled for 10.30 tomorrow. Fingers are crossed, but hopes are low.
In the meantime, London is forgiven all of its sins. The credit crunch is muffled under a fluffy white coat. Moods are light and kids are playing. Roads are impassable and my freezer is well stocked.
February 1 - January 0.
Fortunately, I have enough emergency supplies (icecream, miscellaneous frozen vegetables, soup) to withstand the 18 or so hours of testing snow conditions. Others who weren't so fortunate had to *sucks air through teeth* go outside!
I am being facetious of course.
The snow has fallen. The credit crunch is forgotten. 24 hours of Russian winds have turned even the most uptight of adults into a squealing, goofily, smiling child. Exquisite blankets of powder cloak the streets. At it's edges of course there is grey slush, but no matter: we don't care. We frolic in the parks and the streets. We slide down hills on makeshift sleds, ignore the numbness of our toes and make minimal efforts to get to work.
For mine, I spent the day trying to ascertain whether my flight would depart for Warsaw. It's moments like those that I know the Aussie in me will never be completely stamped out. Conditioning has not yet wiped out my faith in this country's infrastructure. Optimism persisted until the moment I was informed once and for all that I could finally enjoy my snowday because the flight was indeed, cancelled. 'That's terrible' I said whilst clenching my fists to punch the air with glee. I was free.
I have spent the rest of snow day tromping in to work to get some stuff, with a circuitous walk past St Pauls. Amazing. Snow covered and beautiful. I then tromped back via Redcliffe Square where I watched lots of people making snowmen and igloos. Delightful! Glorious! Snow!
I have since indulged in some White Out cooking. Chicken fillets a la Snowday now sit comfortably inside my tum along with some leftover vino. Heaven. Flight is rescheduled for 10.30 tomorrow. Fingers are crossed, but hopes are low.
In the meantime, London is forgiven all of its sins. The credit crunch is muffled under a fluffy white coat. Moods are light and kids are playing. Roads are impassable and my freezer is well stocked.
February 1 - January 0.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Emancipation Through Mo-Town
Be warned. The following post is self-indulgent catharsis on my part. It borders on pointless whinging. You've been warned. And warned again.
To put it simply, this has been just about the worst imaginable start to any year I can remember. I cannot wait for the last minute of January to tick over and be done with. That is when my 2009 is going to start as it can't and I can't continue on like this. I'd be faced with little option but to retreat to a cave, only to emerge having missed summer and autumn, and be slapped in the face again by Winter. That's how rotten the past 19 days have been: I'd skip summer if it meant avoiding another month like this stupid January.
I contemplated waiting until February 1 to write this, just in case things improved. But it appears on the eve of the first month's 20th day, that there are two chances of that happening (as my favourite Australian saying goes) : Buckley's and none. Therefore, if I can evacuate this diatribe from the annals of my whingometer now, by February there can be no more complaining. January will be a distant, depressing memory. And 2009 will begin anew.
The reasons for this miserable mileu, and the nature of it's symptoms are rather less relevant than what I want to tell you about, which is it's potential remedy. The calming, narcotic power of music has propped this lone ranger up so far and shall hopefully do so for another 12 days. Motown specifically, and The Supremes especially.
'Right now the only thing
That keeps me hangin on
When I feel my strength, yeah
Its almost gone
I remember mama said...'
...makes me smile when the clouds are drooping under the weight of the rain they are holding, threatening to saturate me on the way to the Underground.....
'Before you won my heart
You were a perfect guy
But now that you got me
You wanna leave me behind
Baby, baby, ooh baby'
...liberates me from the black shackles of my very very very bad mood......
'Set me free, why dont cha babe
Get out my life, why dont cha babe'
...empowers the brat inside me. Which isn't in and of itself a good thing as it causes me to, for example, argue with the umpire on the netball court, which isn't going to do wonders for my modified rules 'Speed net' career. Oh well. Ooohohoooohohooohoh.
Anyway, healing, calming, soothing powers of music will never again be underestimated by this humble blogger. Imagined memories of happier, less economically diabolical times, of shoulder pads, bouffant hair, glo-mesh and sequined bodices are like honey to this bee. Bzzzzzz.
Roll on February 1, the dulcet tones of Diana Ross might not get me through another single, bloody day of January. The inauguration tomorrow, conceivably, might buck me up long enough to trawl Motown's greatest hits for more musical balm, but possibly not, so February hurry up and show your flipping face.
Au revoir.
To put it simply, this has been just about the worst imaginable start to any year I can remember. I cannot wait for the last minute of January to tick over and be done with. That is when my 2009 is going to start as it can't and I can't continue on like this. I'd be faced with little option but to retreat to a cave, only to emerge having missed summer and autumn, and be slapped in the face again by Winter. That's how rotten the past 19 days have been: I'd skip summer if it meant avoiding another month like this stupid January.
I contemplated waiting until February 1 to write this, just in case things improved. But it appears on the eve of the first month's 20th day, that there are two chances of that happening (as my favourite Australian saying goes) : Buckley's and none. Therefore, if I can evacuate this diatribe from the annals of my whingometer now, by February there can be no more complaining. January will be a distant, depressing memory. And 2009 will begin anew.
The reasons for this miserable mileu, and the nature of it's symptoms are rather less relevant than what I want to tell you about, which is it's potential remedy. The calming, narcotic power of music has propped this lone ranger up so far and shall hopefully do so for another 12 days. Motown specifically, and The Supremes especially.
'Right now the only thing
That keeps me hangin on
When I feel my strength, yeah
Its almost gone
I remember mama said...'
...makes me smile when the clouds are drooping under the weight of the rain they are holding, threatening to saturate me on the way to the Underground.....
'Before you won my heart
You were a perfect guy
But now that you got me
You wanna leave me behind
Baby, baby, ooh baby'
...liberates me from the black shackles of my very very very bad mood......
'Set me free, why dont cha babe
Get out my life, why dont cha babe'
...empowers the brat inside me. Which isn't in and of itself a good thing as it causes me to, for example, argue with the umpire on the netball court, which isn't going to do wonders for my modified rules 'Speed net' career. Oh well. Ooohohoooohohooohoh.
Anyway, healing, calming, soothing powers of music will never again be underestimated by this humble blogger. Imagined memories of happier, less economically diabolical times, of shoulder pads, bouffant hair, glo-mesh and sequined bodices are like honey to this bee. Bzzzzzz.
Roll on February 1, the dulcet tones of Diana Ross might not get me through another single, bloody day of January. The inauguration tomorrow, conceivably, might buck me up long enough to trawl Motown's greatest hits for more musical balm, but possibly not, so February hurry up and show your flipping face.
Au revoir.
Tuesday, January 06, 2009
"When the Lord made me...."
As I walk the streets of London at the moment, one sound is pervasive - more common than any other I hear. It is the sound of breath swiftly sucked back through the teeth, instinctively, against the cold.
There is an arctic cold snap at the moment I'm afraid, timed perfectly to coincide with my return from warmer climes over Christmas. It is testing my usually intractable sense of humour as well as the circulation in my toes, as I shuffle from the flat to the tube, from the tube to work, and back.
London itself has been a little cold for a while. The temperature is always unreliable of course, but the mood too has cooled. The credit crunch has sucked the heat from the global economy, and with it a lot of the optimism and zing that normally pulses through the veins of this place. As the last leaves were clinging to the branches of the trees a couple of months ago, sizable portions of the expat community here decided not to cling any longer. I'm hoping their decision was premature, but with the daily headlines rather depressing, the temperatures sub-zero and feeling a little beset by homesickness, one can't help but wonder.
I've been listening to a great album in the past week - Jukebox by Cat Power. The second track is a brilliant cover of Rambling Man by Hank Williams. Except she sings it as Rambling Woman. Which is quite a fitting track to hum while I tell you my resolutions for 2009.
This is the year of no excuses. No more rambling. Focus. That's the overriding theme of the resolutions. Generally speaking they aren't well thought through, not like last years 'self-improvement' resolutions. (And for the record, I did them all, and my meat and potato pie is awesome). But the thrust of the whole thing is, get back to basics and do what I love and am most interested in. That means scholarly, nerdy stuff and lots of reading, and lots more writing. I am also going to learn a new language.
I'd realised that for some weird reason, I'd always made excuses not to learn French. No longer. I enrolled in a morning class today. Schlepping across London for an 8am Thursday class, all in the name of a new years resolution. Awesome.
Anyway, with that vagary disposed of, I might hit the hay. I hope 2009 finds you, dear reader, (if indeed you still exist) safe and well. 'When the Lord made me, he made a rambling woman.'
There is an arctic cold snap at the moment I'm afraid, timed perfectly to coincide with my return from warmer climes over Christmas. It is testing my usually intractable sense of humour as well as the circulation in my toes, as I shuffle from the flat to the tube, from the tube to work, and back.
London itself has been a little cold for a while. The temperature is always unreliable of course, but the mood too has cooled. The credit crunch has sucked the heat from the global economy, and with it a lot of the optimism and zing that normally pulses through the veins of this place. As the last leaves were clinging to the branches of the trees a couple of months ago, sizable portions of the expat community here decided not to cling any longer. I'm hoping their decision was premature, but with the daily headlines rather depressing, the temperatures sub-zero and feeling a little beset by homesickness, one can't help but wonder.
I've been listening to a great album in the past week - Jukebox by Cat Power. The second track is a brilliant cover of Rambling Man by Hank Williams. Except she sings it as Rambling Woman. Which is quite a fitting track to hum while I tell you my resolutions for 2009.
This is the year of no excuses. No more rambling. Focus. That's the overriding theme of the resolutions. Generally speaking they aren't well thought through, not like last years 'self-improvement' resolutions. (And for the record, I did them all, and my meat and potato pie is awesome). But the thrust of the whole thing is, get back to basics and do what I love and am most interested in. That means scholarly, nerdy stuff and lots of reading, and lots more writing. I am also going to learn a new language.
I'd realised that for some weird reason, I'd always made excuses not to learn French. No longer. I enrolled in a morning class today. Schlepping across London for an 8am Thursday class, all in the name of a new years resolution. Awesome.
Anyway, with that vagary disposed of, I might hit the hay. I hope 2009 finds you, dear reader, (if indeed you still exist) safe and well. 'When the Lord made me, he made a rambling woman.'
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