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.'
Monday, August 25, 2008
Devices named after Fruits
After my slightly cheesed off earlier post from Krakow, I am pleased to advise that while the bank problem remains unfixed, the soothing balm of the Adriatic has left me in a somewhat milder mood!
I am currently on a bus to Split, from where I will hop on a ferry to Hvar for 4 lazy lazy days, before ending in Dubrovnik next Monday. Hallelujah holidays!
Since Krakow we have; taken an entertaining, sleepless night train to Vienna, stayed in a hostel that stunk of rotting cabbage, rowed across Lake Bled in the Julian Alps (stunning!), watched the sunset in a village near Zadar while listening to music and looking at the sea, taken frenzied morning trips to the chemist (don't ask-it involves tummy bugs) and stuffed ourselves full of seafood a la Croatia. Needless to say, the girls and I are chilled. Or chilledski even?
I am breaking my own self imposed rule here by offering purely a narrative account, analysis free. Ah well - perhaps that's part of being truly relaxed - the not being too bothered, that is.
I am yet to decide whether the advent of the blackberry is a curse or a blessing for holidays. Downside - I can see what is going on at work all the time, Upside - I won't have too many emails to return to when I, shudder, return to work. The other thing is that it is remarkably handy to be able to google things to prove yourself right (or occasionally wrong!) when ensconsed in a dinner-time debate. The GPS is also useful (if not entirely understood by it's owner and her companions) and provides the light entertainment of watching onself represented as a red dot, aimlessly circling the strasses and platzs of Vienna, for example. Anyway, we shall see if I can bite the bullet and reduce the use of this wee device for this last week of sun, sun, sun.
Ok - I am nodding off - all that Electric Elephanting has made me weary. The ipod and travel snacks beckon, as does a nap with the practically obligatory open mouth and chin dribble. Mmmm. Glamourous.
Ciao.
I am currently on a bus to Split, from where I will hop on a ferry to Hvar for 4 lazy lazy days, before ending in Dubrovnik next Monday. Hallelujah holidays!
Since Krakow we have; taken an entertaining, sleepless night train to Vienna, stayed in a hostel that stunk of rotting cabbage, rowed across Lake Bled in the Julian Alps (stunning!), watched the sunset in a village near Zadar while listening to music and looking at the sea, taken frenzied morning trips to the chemist (don't ask-it involves tummy bugs) and stuffed ourselves full of seafood a la Croatia. Needless to say, the girls and I are chilled. Or chilledski even?
I am breaking my own self imposed rule here by offering purely a narrative account, analysis free. Ah well - perhaps that's part of being truly relaxed - the not being too bothered, that is.
I am yet to decide whether the advent of the blackberry is a curse or a blessing for holidays. Downside - I can see what is going on at work all the time, Upside - I won't have too many emails to return to when I, shudder, return to work. The other thing is that it is remarkably handy to be able to google things to prove yourself right (or occasionally wrong!) when ensconsed in a dinner-time debate. The GPS is also useful (if not entirely understood by it's owner and her companions) and provides the light entertainment of watching onself represented as a red dot, aimlessly circling the strasses and platzs of Vienna, for example. Anyway, we shall see if I can bite the bullet and reduce the use of this wee device for this last week of sun, sun, sun.
Ok - I am nodding off - all that Electric Elephanting has made me weary. The ipod and travel snacks beckon, as does a nap with the practically obligatory open mouth and chin dribble. Mmmm. Glamourous.
Ciao.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
A Test
If I said that the past three months of blogger silence was a test to you, my loyal readership, would you believe me? I doubt it.
I can't diagnose the malady that has prevented me from writing. I've thought about writing and have just not really had anything to say. The advent of the facebook status removes the need for any minor, pressing issues to be blogged & the British summer and the need to make the most of the long days has reduced my (already finite) spare time. Anyway. I now have something to say - I am on holiday.
I am with Ellie and Claudia in Krakow. We are on the first full day of an 18 day day Central European odyssey. Monday night we catch a train to Vienna, then on to Ljubjana & Bled in Slovenia, then to Croatia for a week of beaches and not much else.
First point of note is that last night, I slept under a hammer & sickle flag, in the 'Lenin Room' of the Elephant on the Moon hostel. (It's lovely, super clean, cheap - and as I type this a mouth watering Polish breakfast awaits....mmmmm).
Second point of note is that by mutual agreement, all three of us left warm clothes at home. This is because were were convinced that the weather was going to be so sunny that we wouldn't need anything knitted or fleecy. The upshot of all that is, it's raining. And chilly. So today we may go to the underground salt mines about 90 minutes from here, as apparently that's the best thing to do in such natty weather.
In fact, it hasn't been quite the start to the holiday we imagined. As we sat eating Polishified Georgian food last night in the Old Town, watching rain that was positively torrential, I called my bank to ascertain why I was unable to access any money. 'Your card has been cloned' they informed me, 'And so we put a block on your card being used outside the UK.' 'Oh you did did you? Did you thnk about INFORMING me before you did this?' I replied, extremely cheesed off, 'It's ok', said the call centre man, 'We will allow you to access 100 pounds per day throughout your holiday.' Fortunately I am backpacking, and am not a more wealthy customer with designs upon antiques and art, otherwise this would be even less practical than it already is. To say I am cross is an understatement. The only thing my bank did to redeem themselves, was to credit my account with the 20 pounds, which in my fury I guesstimated would have been the cost of my phone call to the UK.
So, I am going to have to think quite carefully about how to access MY OWN MONEY throughout the holiday, and will be writing a terse letter when I get home. I can't believe they didn't call me before they put a stop on my card, particularly when, as a regular traveller, a cursory glance at the last 2 months statements would have suggested that I MIGHT NEED TO USE MY CARD OVERSEAS.
Right, rant over.
Krakow is a lovely city - Poland's most popular. A population that is Adelaide size-ish, but smooshed closer to the centre in the trademark apartment blocks of post-Soviet cities. We can't wait to do some stuff - I just wish I wasn't looking out the window, across this table full of delicious Polish breakfast food, to see drizzle. Yes, it is DRIZZLE. Not even proper rain. :-(
Right - o. The girls will sleep all day if I don't go and jump on them to wake them, so I think that's what I may do. The promise of ood always works a treat too. On all of us. :-)
Kepp an eye out - I may well blog a few times the next few weeks. Just because I can!
I can't diagnose the malady that has prevented me from writing. I've thought about writing and have just not really had anything to say. The advent of the facebook status removes the need for any minor, pressing issues to be blogged & the British summer and the need to make the most of the long days has reduced my (already finite) spare time. Anyway. I now have something to say - I am on holiday.
I am with Ellie and Claudia in Krakow. We are on the first full day of an 18 day day Central European odyssey. Monday night we catch a train to Vienna, then on to Ljubjana & Bled in Slovenia, then to Croatia for a week of beaches and not much else.
First point of note is that last night, I slept under a hammer & sickle flag, in the 'Lenin Room' of the Elephant on the Moon hostel. (It's lovely, super clean, cheap - and as I type this a mouth watering Polish breakfast awaits....mmmmm).
Second point of note is that by mutual agreement, all three of us left warm clothes at home. This is because were were convinced that the weather was going to be so sunny that we wouldn't need anything knitted or fleecy. The upshot of all that is, it's raining. And chilly. So today we may go to the underground salt mines about 90 minutes from here, as apparently that's the best thing to do in such natty weather.
In fact, it hasn't been quite the start to the holiday we imagined. As we sat eating Polishified Georgian food last night in the Old Town, watching rain that was positively torrential, I called my bank to ascertain why I was unable to access any money. 'Your card has been cloned' they informed me, 'And so we put a block on your card being used outside the UK.' 'Oh you did did you? Did you thnk about INFORMING me before you did this?' I replied, extremely cheesed off, 'It's ok', said the call centre man, 'We will allow you to access 100 pounds per day throughout your holiday.' Fortunately I am backpacking, and am not a more wealthy customer with designs upon antiques and art, otherwise this would be even less practical than it already is. To say I am cross is an understatement. The only thing my bank did to redeem themselves, was to credit my account with the 20 pounds, which in my fury I guesstimated would have been the cost of my phone call to the UK.
So, I am going to have to think quite carefully about how to access MY OWN MONEY throughout the holiday, and will be writing a terse letter when I get home. I can't believe they didn't call me before they put a stop on my card, particularly when, as a regular traveller, a cursory glance at the last 2 months statements would have suggested that I MIGHT NEED TO USE MY CARD OVERSEAS.
Right, rant over.
Krakow is a lovely city - Poland's most popular. A population that is Adelaide size-ish, but smooshed closer to the centre in the trademark apartment blocks of post-Soviet cities. We can't wait to do some stuff - I just wish I wasn't looking out the window, across this table full of delicious Polish breakfast food, to see drizzle. Yes, it is DRIZZLE. Not even proper rain. :-(
Right - o. The girls will sleep all day if I don't go and jump on them to wake them, so I think that's what I may do. The promise of ood always works a treat too. On all of us. :-)
Kepp an eye out - I may well blog a few times the next few weeks. Just because I can!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Airborne
While I won’t be able to publish this post until I land, I nonetheless write from the flukey luxury of the emergency exit seat of my flight to Moscow. Week two of this particular glut of travel has begun, where I take one step further toward reluctantly becoming carbon-footprintesse; racking up the airmiles faster than you can say ‘the Amazon is shrinking’. Actually, that last bit is a lie – from the unglamourous world of discount economy, the points don’t accrue quite as fast as one would hope. But as usual I digress.
A mildly depressing by-product of the travel (which don’t for a moment, think I don’t enjoy) is that the novelty wears off. Not that long ago, entering airports still gave me that slight nervous feeling in the bottom of my tummy; packing the night before was exciting, sitting in the confines of an aeroplane cabin was cool and not irritating and the window seat was a coveted prize.
Alas, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. The ugly underbelly of the whole thing (apart from the increasing disconnexion with your life at home) is that your skin dries out like an old boot, your diet is thrown into disarray by time differences & hotel breakfasts, and the wonderful efficiencies of such airborne conveniences as ‘BA’s own handwash/airfreshener’ wreak havoc on a gal’s physiology.
All of my closest friends know of my tendency to spontaneously break out in bizarre red rashes & flushes – probably an unfortunate inheritance of rosacea from my mother-dearest. This somewhat unpredictable condition seems to be exacerbated by the ‘less than 1%’ humidity environment of the plane (I just read that in the in-flight magazine) and the chemical innovations that British Air obviously considers time and space savers. (If every poor sod to use the loo washes their hands with that awful 2 in 1 stuff, I don’t suppose it matters how smelly the darned facility gets). Increasingly I understand the carefully selected array of cosmetics available on board in the duty free catalogue – 8 hour Cream to quench my skin’s equivalent of a rollicking hangover, and various eye potions to smooth the wrinkly depressions that develop around my squinting peepers.
I’m not for a moment trying to sound brattish and hoity-toity about all of this. Landing in Kyiv on a Tuesday only to fly to Vienna on a Thursday and Moscow the following Monday is the randomest, most brilliant thing to do in the name of work that I can currently imagine. What’s even more fortunate is that I actually enjoy what I do at either end of the journey.
This current travel glut more exciting than usual for a couple of reasons. This week I am in Moscow for nearly 4 whole days, innocently timed to coincide with the Chelsea v Manchester United match on Wednesday night. The atmosphere in Moscow promises to be as electric as the prods holstered in the utility belts of the riot police, as they jab all the unsuspecting footy yobs (who are about to get the shock of their lives in Moscow) in their parochial backsides.
The second cause for excitement is that Mama Neary is currently here, and we are flying together to Spain (Benahavis to be precise) on Friday after I touch back down in Londres for a whole 12 hours. All I know about Benahavis is that I am staying in a spa hotel, there are a lot of very very good restaurants around, and that there is a high probability of a high proportion of sun. B-E-A-utiful.
Anyway, given my good fortune in being allocated a seat with expansive and luxurious leg room, it would seem almost sinful not to at least stretch out and lap it up. This is virtually impossible to do with my laptop propped on my lap, so das vitanya. Or however they say it in Moskva.
A mildly depressing by-product of the travel (which don’t for a moment, think I don’t enjoy) is that the novelty wears off. Not that long ago, entering airports still gave me that slight nervous feeling in the bottom of my tummy; packing the night before was exciting, sitting in the confines of an aeroplane cabin was cool and not irritating and the window seat was a coveted prize.
Alas, it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. The ugly underbelly of the whole thing (apart from the increasing disconnexion with your life at home) is that your skin dries out like an old boot, your diet is thrown into disarray by time differences & hotel breakfasts, and the wonderful efficiencies of such airborne conveniences as ‘BA’s own handwash/airfreshener’ wreak havoc on a gal’s physiology.
All of my closest friends know of my tendency to spontaneously break out in bizarre red rashes & flushes – probably an unfortunate inheritance of rosacea from my mother-dearest. This somewhat unpredictable condition seems to be exacerbated by the ‘less than 1%’ humidity environment of the plane (I just read that in the in-flight magazine) and the chemical innovations that British Air obviously considers time and space savers. (If every poor sod to use the loo washes their hands with that awful 2 in 1 stuff, I don’t suppose it matters how smelly the darned facility gets). Increasingly I understand the carefully selected array of cosmetics available on board in the duty free catalogue – 8 hour Cream to quench my skin’s equivalent of a rollicking hangover, and various eye potions to smooth the wrinkly depressions that develop around my squinting peepers.
I’m not for a moment trying to sound brattish and hoity-toity about all of this. Landing in Kyiv on a Tuesday only to fly to Vienna on a Thursday and Moscow the following Monday is the randomest, most brilliant thing to do in the name of work that I can currently imagine. What’s even more fortunate is that I actually enjoy what I do at either end of the journey.
This current travel glut more exciting than usual for a couple of reasons. This week I am in Moscow for nearly 4 whole days, innocently timed to coincide with the Chelsea v Manchester United match on Wednesday night. The atmosphere in Moscow promises to be as electric as the prods holstered in the utility belts of the riot police, as they jab all the unsuspecting footy yobs (who are about to get the shock of their lives in Moscow) in their parochial backsides.
The second cause for excitement is that Mama Neary is currently here, and we are flying together to Spain (Benahavis to be precise) on Friday after I touch back down in Londres for a whole 12 hours. All I know about Benahavis is that I am staying in a spa hotel, there are a lot of very very good restaurants around, and that there is a high probability of a high proportion of sun. B-E-A-utiful.
Anyway, given my good fortune in being allocated a seat with expansive and luxurious leg room, it would seem almost sinful not to at least stretch out and lap it up. This is virtually impossible to do with my laptop propped on my lap, so das vitanya. Or however they say it in Moskva.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Chivalry
So finally, I am writing a post on here. After two months of not very much, I've found some inspiration. I have a policy you see, of not writing on here unless I have something interesting (at least in my humble opinion) to say. So much meaningless and unconsidered pap abounds on the Internet, that while not necessarily always being able to avoid adding to the pile, I'd like to think that I can at least self-censor until I have something a)vaguely witty b)vaguely thematic or c) where a and b cannot be achieved, something that meets the basic threshold criteria of being, vaguely interesting.
I have thus decided to write a note on British chivalry. I hope you don't mind if I simultaneously tuck in to my wild mushroom ravioli having just got in from a muscle pulverising session on the power plates - my new favourite gym equipment.
So.
The British are known for having good manners. As a British-born Australian-raised anomaly, I often find these manners rather stultifying, however equally as often, I find them quite nice and endearing.
One thing that I find quite hard to adjust to, and which I don't recall happening anywhere near as consistently in Australia, is when I am waiting either to get in or out of the lift at work, and find that any member of the male species who happens to be waiting to do the same, makes a very English point of allowing me to either enter or exit first.
After over nine months I still don't think I have got the feminine etiquette right in this situation.
Does one simply ignore the fact that every man in the lift is standing there waiting politely for you to exit first, and stride out, chin up and feigning oblivion? (Sometimes I do this.) Or rather, make subtle eye contact with the waiting gent, tilt her head ever so slightly in self-effacing acknowledgement and then walk out? (Sometimes I do this.) Or do I (and this is my instinctive reaction) - roll my eyes in reluctant acceptance of this chivalry, say 'thanks' in my broadest Austrayan accent, and walk on ahead?
Sigh. Daily, five, six, seven times I take the lift between floors and am faced with this quandary, which I suspect, were I born and bread in mother England, wouldn't even register on my 'thing-dar' as being a thing.
The other chivalrous act which causes me some trepidation is the assistance that British (and central European for that matter) gentlemen will often provide with one's coat. Being a northern lass, broad-of shoulder but disproportionately narrow in lower rib-cage, the cut of coat I seem to buy does not lend itself to the athletic manoeuvre that is, struggling into a coat that is being held open behind you by a date/friend/senior partner of the firm, however kind their intentions. I am therefore often at my most unwieldy and least glamorous when struggling into a coat at the end of a pleasant lunch/dinner/drink in a bar...... Woe is me, the tall woman who prefers to wear 2-3 inch heels, participates enthusiastically in conversation, thereby drawing enough attention to herself to ensure that the coat-struggling leads to one of those embarrassing flushes to which she is prone - the kind that creeps down the sides of her neck and betrays her discomfort!
My final note on British chivalry is this. All of the above flies madly out of the window when one takes the Underground. The kindly Associate who might wait for you to step into the lift, will elbow you out of the way, without a qualm, should he happen to meet you in the Hobbesian world of the platform at King's Cross station at 9.05am. The polite and softly spoken gent with whom you have shared a quiet cocktail or two in some chichi bar prior to his ably provided assistance with your coat, will happily elbow you in the face whilst smushed against you like a sardine, leaving you hunched like a wilting hydrangea in that annoying section at the side of each tube carriage (on the Piccadilly line especially) that was created for hobbits, dwarfs and all other beings under 4'11.
The philosophical question which I now pose is this? If these good manners, and particularly the gendered ones of the nature I have described above, don't extend to the Londoner's daily commute - what in fact is the point of them? :-)
Anyway, I've said all I need to say on that.
A quick update on other news - I spent Easter in Latvia, as the loyal amongst you would know. It was great and I'd recommend a visit. Don't expect to sleep.
I was meant to go to Vienna for work today, but the trip was cancelled at the last minute because one of the Partners who was due to come, had to work on a big transaction which was going to close at the same time as she was meant to be standing in front of a client teaching them about share purchase agreements. So that was a bit annoying.
I've started reading my first piece of central and eastern European literature - The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. Dad did you ever read him at Uni?
There are a couple of other developments, but they are a bit embarrassing and I've not decided whether I am prepared to publicly humiliate myself yet for your reading-pleasure.....
Mum is coming in May and we are going to visit Marbella in Spain (the alarming growth of my carbon footprint by virtue of air travel this year, does not escape my attention - fear not.)
I have my first trip to Kyiv, also in May which friends tell me makes the hedonism of Warsaw, Riga and Moscow look dilute.
In June I intend to attend a big summer festival here in London.
July = bonus time! Yippee!
August = the central European odyssey with Ellie. Jumping out of my skin with excitement at the though of sitting in a chalet in the Julian Alps overlooking Lake Bled in Slovenia, sitting on a towel admiring the southern Croatian coast, catching a train to a spa-island just outside Bratislava. Sigh.
Sorry folks. Can't see myself leaving this part of the world quiiiiiteee yet.
xx
I have thus decided to write a note on British chivalry. I hope you don't mind if I simultaneously tuck in to my wild mushroom ravioli having just got in from a muscle pulverising session on the power plates - my new favourite gym equipment.
So.
The British are known for having good manners. As a British-born Australian-raised anomaly, I often find these manners rather stultifying, however equally as often, I find them quite nice and endearing.
One thing that I find quite hard to adjust to, and which I don't recall happening anywhere near as consistently in Australia, is when I am waiting either to get in or out of the lift at work, and find that any member of the male species who happens to be waiting to do the same, makes a very English point of allowing me to either enter or exit first.
After over nine months I still don't think I have got the feminine etiquette right in this situation.
Does one simply ignore the fact that every man in the lift is standing there waiting politely for you to exit first, and stride out, chin up and feigning oblivion? (Sometimes I do this.) Or rather, make subtle eye contact with the waiting gent, tilt her head ever so slightly in self-effacing acknowledgement and then walk out? (Sometimes I do this.) Or do I (and this is my instinctive reaction) - roll my eyes in reluctant acceptance of this chivalry, say 'thanks' in my broadest Austrayan accent, and walk on ahead?
Sigh. Daily, five, six, seven times I take the lift between floors and am faced with this quandary, which I suspect, were I born and bread in mother England, wouldn't even register on my 'thing-dar' as being a thing.
The other chivalrous act which causes me some trepidation is the assistance that British (and central European for that matter) gentlemen will often provide with one's coat. Being a northern lass, broad-of shoulder but disproportionately narrow in lower rib-cage, the cut of coat I seem to buy does not lend itself to the athletic manoeuvre that is, struggling into a coat that is being held open behind you by a date/friend/senior partner of the firm, however kind their intentions. I am therefore often at my most unwieldy and least glamorous when struggling into a coat at the end of a pleasant lunch/dinner/drink in a bar...... Woe is me, the tall woman who prefers to wear 2-3 inch heels, participates enthusiastically in conversation, thereby drawing enough attention to herself to ensure that the coat-struggling leads to one of those embarrassing flushes to which she is prone - the kind that creeps down the sides of her neck and betrays her discomfort!
My final note on British chivalry is this. All of the above flies madly out of the window when one takes the Underground. The kindly Associate who might wait for you to step into the lift, will elbow you out of the way, without a qualm, should he happen to meet you in the Hobbesian world of the platform at King's Cross station at 9.05am. The polite and softly spoken gent with whom you have shared a quiet cocktail or two in some chichi bar prior to his ably provided assistance with your coat, will happily elbow you in the face whilst smushed against you like a sardine, leaving you hunched like a wilting hydrangea in that annoying section at the side of each tube carriage (on the Piccadilly line especially) that was created for hobbits, dwarfs and all other beings under 4'11.
The philosophical question which I now pose is this? If these good manners, and particularly the gendered ones of the nature I have described above, don't extend to the Londoner's daily commute - what in fact is the point of them? :-)
Anyway, I've said all I need to say on that.
A quick update on other news - I spent Easter in Latvia, as the loyal amongst you would know. It was great and I'd recommend a visit. Don't expect to sleep.
I was meant to go to Vienna for work today, but the trip was cancelled at the last minute because one of the Partners who was due to come, had to work on a big transaction which was going to close at the same time as she was meant to be standing in front of a client teaching them about share purchase agreements. So that was a bit annoying.
I've started reading my first piece of central and eastern European literature - The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoevsky. Dad did you ever read him at Uni?
There are a couple of other developments, but they are a bit embarrassing and I've not decided whether I am prepared to publicly humiliate myself yet for your reading-pleasure.....
Mum is coming in May and we are going to visit Marbella in Spain (the alarming growth of my carbon footprint by virtue of air travel this year, does not escape my attention - fear not.)
I have my first trip to Kyiv, also in May which friends tell me makes the hedonism of Warsaw, Riga and Moscow look dilute.
In June I intend to attend a big summer festival here in London.
July = bonus time! Yippee!
August = the central European odyssey with Ellie. Jumping out of my skin with excitement at the though of sitting in a chalet in the Julian Alps overlooking Lake Bled in Slovenia, sitting on a towel admiring the southern Croatian coast, catching a train to a spa-island just outside Bratislava. Sigh.
Sorry folks. Can't see myself leaving this part of the world quiiiiiteee yet.
xx
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Look! I'm in Riga!
I have not written on my blog for ages and ages. Thoroughly neglectful and utterly lazy.
To tide you over till I get time to write something proper - here is a picture of me in Riga over the Easter weekend. I went with four friends - all male - and had an absolute ball!
To tide you over till I get time to write something proper - here is a picture of me in Riga over the Easter weekend. I went with four friends - all male - and had an absolute ball!
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Friday, February 08, 2008
Four Countries, Four Weeks, Energy, Fatigue
"Excuse me, I'm sorry, there's not a lot of room. I hope you don't mind me standing here', I said to the two young gentlemen standing at the bar in Platinum, Warsaw.
'Is that an Australian accent?' said one of them, obviously himself an Aussie far from home.
'Indeed it is' I replied.
And thereupon started one of the more interesting and serendipitous meetings of the past few weeks.
Rewind some time.
My feet touched the ground in London last Wednesday evening. I had spent the five preceding days in Warsaw, and the three immediately before that in Moscow. In the week prior, and the one immediately after my most recent post, I was in Prague.
My arm has an increasingly black looking mark on it from where I continue to pinch myself. These are the places where I now find myself working. Honestly, I can't believe my luck. As the line from Sound of Music goes 'Somewhere in my youth, or childhood...I must have done something good.' Forgive me, as always, for my cheesy lapses.
Alas, Prague was a bit of a rush. Client training, the first of three, a new initiative, to-ing and fro-ing and lots of people to see, I mashed my sightseeing into 15 minutes and ran back to the office to jump in a taxi. I shall return there and stay longer. It is a stunning city, absolutely beautiful.
Moscow on the other hand was slightly less frenetic. I have 2 pals in that office - an Adelaide boy and a Sydney boy. They took me to dinner (on expenses, god bless expenses!) and then for a walk through the snow to Red Square. Where I stood. Like an idiot. Cursing the limitations of the camera on my blackberry and wanting to snap the place from every angle, and cursing my own ignorance for not knowing more about the history of the place. I know enough to get it, but not enough to really get it. That makes limited sense.
Apologies, I still haven't redressed by sleep deficit.
Moscow is not an easy place to visit. Of the 7 offices I work in, and the 5 I have been to thus far, it is the furthest away, it has the biggest time difference, smiling gets you nowhere, and English even less. It is a vast and intimidating city, ironically materialistic but still somehow not Western. Even the sign on McDonalds is written in cyrillic. Now people, imagine it........
It is wildly expensive, and I cannot fathom how people not fortunate enough to have an ex-pat's salary or a corporate credit card manage to eek out their existence. My accommodation for one night in that place cost well over three quarters of my weekly take-home pay. And the hotel was sub-par, the breakfast utterly dismal.
Again the faces, the faces - they are different. The eyes on the metro (I caught it with Arty and Mark) are sad, the jawlines set, movements measured, reactions considered. It is the only place where I have been that the use of English, even mere pleasantries, is consistently, overwhelmingly, met with a blank expressionless stare. You will be treated more favourably, it would appear, if you speak gruffly in any language, without eye contact, and raise your voice if you don't get your own way.
I am painting, not undeliberately, an unfriendly picture. It only got to about -10 when I was there. It snowed for only the second time this year. 'This is not winter' explained the Muscovites in my office, 'there is no snow' (this was patently untrue, I could see it everywhere) 'It is not cold' (this last point, I can also verify, was patently untrue). By Moscow standards perhaps, and for people accustomed to fierce, biting, unforgiving winters, this was all true.
In a cab, an amusing thing happened. I use the term 'cab' loosely, as in Moscow, every man with a car is a possible conduit between you and your destination. Bereft of Russian, I was dependent on my pals and colleagues to sort out such vehicles to ferry me about. In one cab with a man who looked like he was from the outskirts of the former Soviet Union, (a '-stan' country) I mused with Arthur about whether this was truly safe. 'Don't be silly, it's fine, trust me' he said. Conceding I replied 'Where do you think this guy is from?' 'I don't want to say in case he understands me'. 'What does it start with?' I pressed. "Maybe a 'T'??' was Arthur's answer. A few moments of silence.
'So are you guys tourists?' came the voice of the driver. This in a city where my ears barely heard English spoken. Arthur and I looked at each other slightly embarassed, wondering how much our driver had understood.
The flight home was delayed, and then, frustratingly an hour of my life was sucked away by the tarmac at Heathrow. 'I'm awfully sorry chaps', said the pilot, 'I'm going to turn the engines off, it looks like we will be sitting here awhile. Feel free to turn on your phones and call who you need to.' He may not have said chaps. I didn't hear. I, like the other be-suited types onboard were already clicking our tongues on our teeth, powering up our blackberries, and furiously flicking emails here and there complaining about the airport, imploring our taxi's to wait awhile longer for us.
How suddenly one becomes accustomed to this kind of existence!
10 hours later, and after a fairly fitful sleep, I was on the plane to Warsaw to join the staff of that office for their annual ball. I had big expectations for this city, having developed a semi-fixation on Polish men, and having made some absolutely fabulous Polish friends. It didn't disappoint me.
Warsaw is not a beautiful city. It was flattened, demolished with calculating completeness in the second world war. Now the skyline is dominated by tower blocks, slightly less ugly than those in Moscow, but nonetheless unattractive. These building were erected in the 50's and 60's to house the thousands of people who returned to the city. As my dear friend Izabela explained 'these were meant to be temporary', but I guess the advent of communism meant that the incentive to knock them down was removed.
Did you know that the hedonistic heyday of Poland was in the 20's and 30's, pre-war? Either did I, until Iza took Kat and I to a fabulous art gallery. I have never seen the history of a place depicted so clearly through art as I did there. Such pronounced differences, from the Parisian reminiscent chic of that pre-war period, giving way to the influences of war, and then to the greys and industry of communism. Amazing. And illuminating.
The old town, completely destroyed, and completely rebuilt. It looks therefore 'new' old. But is no less fantastic for it.
I found Warsaw to be a very calming place. Notwithstanding two extraordinarily late nights (the second which I alluded to in the opening of this post) and a thorough insight into the life of the many young, glamorous, wealthy Poles who are making the most of the contemporary opportunities, I still found it to be calm and peaceful. I consider myself very lucky to have several good friends there, Izabela in particular.
And the chance meeting I mentioned above, led to a meeting in the office on Tuesday between one of the teams, and a high profile client (Australian). So it would seem, I may have paid for my trip in a roundabout way. Perhaps next year I shall ask for a 'business development' allowance, to facilitate clubbing in Eastern Europe..... not as preposterous as it sounds. :-)
Ladida. It could all get a bit intoxicating this constant travel. Fortunately, next Wednesday (actually, in 4 days time) I shall jump once more aboard a plane, to fly back to Australia. You can bring me crashing back to earth, and pick on the supposed English twang in my accent. As long are you are buying me Pale Ale, by the pint, I shall let you get away with it.
Good evening. Das vitanya. Do widzenia.
'Is that an Australian accent?' said one of them, obviously himself an Aussie far from home.
'Indeed it is' I replied.
And thereupon started one of the more interesting and serendipitous meetings of the past few weeks.
Rewind some time.
My feet touched the ground in London last Wednesday evening. I had spent the five preceding days in Warsaw, and the three immediately before that in Moscow. In the week prior, and the one immediately after my most recent post, I was in Prague.
My arm has an increasingly black looking mark on it from where I continue to pinch myself. These are the places where I now find myself working. Honestly, I can't believe my luck. As the line from Sound of Music goes 'Somewhere in my youth, or childhood...I must have done something good.' Forgive me, as always, for my cheesy lapses.
Alas, Prague was a bit of a rush. Client training, the first of three, a new initiative, to-ing and fro-ing and lots of people to see, I mashed my sightseeing into 15 minutes and ran back to the office to jump in a taxi. I shall return there and stay longer. It is a stunning city, absolutely beautiful.
Moscow on the other hand was slightly less frenetic. I have 2 pals in that office - an Adelaide boy and a Sydney boy. They took me to dinner (on expenses, god bless expenses!) and then for a walk through the snow to Red Square. Where I stood. Like an idiot. Cursing the limitations of the camera on my blackberry and wanting to snap the place from every angle, and cursing my own ignorance for not knowing more about the history of the place. I know enough to get it, but not enough to really get it. That makes limited sense.
Apologies, I still haven't redressed by sleep deficit.
Moscow is not an easy place to visit. Of the 7 offices I work in, and the 5 I have been to thus far, it is the furthest away, it has the biggest time difference, smiling gets you nowhere, and English even less. It is a vast and intimidating city, ironically materialistic but still somehow not Western. Even the sign on McDonalds is written in cyrillic. Now people, imagine it........
It is wildly expensive, and I cannot fathom how people not fortunate enough to have an ex-pat's salary or a corporate credit card manage to eek out their existence. My accommodation for one night in that place cost well over three quarters of my weekly take-home pay. And the hotel was sub-par, the breakfast utterly dismal.
Again the faces, the faces - they are different. The eyes on the metro (I caught it with Arty and Mark) are sad, the jawlines set, movements measured, reactions considered. It is the only place where I have been that the use of English, even mere pleasantries, is consistently, overwhelmingly, met with a blank expressionless stare. You will be treated more favourably, it would appear, if you speak gruffly in any language, without eye contact, and raise your voice if you don't get your own way.
I am painting, not undeliberately, an unfriendly picture. It only got to about -10 when I was there. It snowed for only the second time this year. 'This is not winter' explained the Muscovites in my office, 'there is no snow' (this was patently untrue, I could see it everywhere) 'It is not cold' (this last point, I can also verify, was patently untrue). By Moscow standards perhaps, and for people accustomed to fierce, biting, unforgiving winters, this was all true.
In a cab, an amusing thing happened. I use the term 'cab' loosely, as in Moscow, every man with a car is a possible conduit between you and your destination. Bereft of Russian, I was dependent on my pals and colleagues to sort out such vehicles to ferry me about. In one cab with a man who looked like he was from the outskirts of the former Soviet Union, (a '-stan' country) I mused with Arthur about whether this was truly safe. 'Don't be silly, it's fine, trust me' he said. Conceding I replied 'Where do you think this guy is from?' 'I don't want to say in case he understands me'. 'What does it start with?' I pressed. "Maybe a 'T'??' was Arthur's answer. A few moments of silence.
'So are you guys tourists?' came the voice of the driver. This in a city where my ears barely heard English spoken. Arthur and I looked at each other slightly embarassed, wondering how much our driver had understood.
The flight home was delayed, and then, frustratingly an hour of my life was sucked away by the tarmac at Heathrow. 'I'm awfully sorry chaps', said the pilot, 'I'm going to turn the engines off, it looks like we will be sitting here awhile. Feel free to turn on your phones and call who you need to.' He may not have said chaps. I didn't hear. I, like the other be-suited types onboard were already clicking our tongues on our teeth, powering up our blackberries, and furiously flicking emails here and there complaining about the airport, imploring our taxi's to wait awhile longer for us.
How suddenly one becomes accustomed to this kind of existence!
10 hours later, and after a fairly fitful sleep, I was on the plane to Warsaw to join the staff of that office for their annual ball. I had big expectations for this city, having developed a semi-fixation on Polish men, and having made some absolutely fabulous Polish friends. It didn't disappoint me.
Warsaw is not a beautiful city. It was flattened, demolished with calculating completeness in the second world war. Now the skyline is dominated by tower blocks, slightly less ugly than those in Moscow, but nonetheless unattractive. These building were erected in the 50's and 60's to house the thousands of people who returned to the city. As my dear friend Izabela explained 'these were meant to be temporary', but I guess the advent of communism meant that the incentive to knock them down was removed.
Did you know that the hedonistic heyday of Poland was in the 20's and 30's, pre-war? Either did I, until Iza took Kat and I to a fabulous art gallery. I have never seen the history of a place depicted so clearly through art as I did there. Such pronounced differences, from the Parisian reminiscent chic of that pre-war period, giving way to the influences of war, and then to the greys and industry of communism. Amazing. And illuminating.
The old town, completely destroyed, and completely rebuilt. It looks therefore 'new' old. But is no less fantastic for it.
I found Warsaw to be a very calming place. Notwithstanding two extraordinarily late nights (the second which I alluded to in the opening of this post) and a thorough insight into the life of the many young, glamorous, wealthy Poles who are making the most of the contemporary opportunities, I still found it to be calm and peaceful. I consider myself very lucky to have several good friends there, Izabela in particular.
And the chance meeting I mentioned above, led to a meeting in the office on Tuesday between one of the teams, and a high profile client (Australian). So it would seem, I may have paid for my trip in a roundabout way. Perhaps next year I shall ask for a 'business development' allowance, to facilitate clubbing in Eastern Europe..... not as preposterous as it sounds. :-)
Ladida. It could all get a bit intoxicating this constant travel. Fortunately, next Wednesday (actually, in 4 days time) I shall jump once more aboard a plane, to fly back to Australia. You can bring me crashing back to earth, and pick on the supposed English twang in my accent. As long are you are buying me Pale Ale, by the pint, I shall let you get away with it.
Good evening. Das vitanya. Do widzenia.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Snow and Faces
I am currently in Bucharest writing this from my blackberry. Forgive the poorly thought out ideas. Am blogging as best as I can from the comfort of my hotel bed in a country where the water is apparently brown sometimes.
Naively, I always had in my mind previously that the countries behind the former iron curtain were in some small way uniform. Obviously it had occurred to me that there were differences, but what I didn't expect to find was that the single, the only common thread that bound them during that era was communism. Ethnic, cultural, linguistic, historical diversity that was, apparently, repressed to varying degrees during that long era now manifests everywhere.
But the thing that has most surprised me quite possibly is the faces. Romanian faces seem to be vaguely mediterranean and I learned tonight that Romanian is a Latin derived language-closer to Spanish or Italian than it is to its at once close and distant slavic neigbours.
Bucharest is cloaked in snow right now and it is cold,but in an exciting rather than numbing way. People at work have been laughing at my (as it turns out) misplaced trepidation about how to cope with icy pavements and trudging through snow drifts.The truth is that here, unlike in England, they are accustomed to and thus prepared for snow. It makes it easier to cope with. Having borrowed an exquisitely cosy rabbit lined anorak from Frilly certainly helps. To the friends expressing their horror at my wearing of fur- a thought for you- try waiting for a cab in -12 without a fur and see how your opinion changes.... :-) Anyway, rabbits are pests.
I suspect I may have started a fire with that burst of capriciousness..!
Anyway. The snow is wonderful. As surprisingly is the freezing fog. I feel like a lock-jawed ninny staring glazed eyed from the taxi window at cars buried in snow, and like a cool-clime novice when I express surprise at aircraft casually parked on unnatural and abandoned angles aside the runway.
Could I live in it? Certainly not. But as a visitor whose time is made finite here by the prospect of snow on Thursday and the inflexible conditions of my return ticket, the snow is delicious.
As is the prospect of 8 uninterupted hours of sleep. Starting now.
Naively, I always had in my mind previously that the countries behind the former iron curtain were in some small way uniform. Obviously it had occurred to me that there were differences, but what I didn't expect to find was that the single, the only common thread that bound them during that era was communism. Ethnic, cultural, linguistic, historical diversity that was, apparently, repressed to varying degrees during that long era now manifests everywhere.
But the thing that has most surprised me quite possibly is the faces. Romanian faces seem to be vaguely mediterranean and I learned tonight that Romanian is a Latin derived language-closer to Spanish or Italian than it is to its at once close and distant slavic neigbours.
Bucharest is cloaked in snow right now and it is cold,but in an exciting rather than numbing way. People at work have been laughing at my (as it turns out) misplaced trepidation about how to cope with icy pavements and trudging through snow drifts.The truth is that here, unlike in England, they are accustomed to and thus prepared for snow. It makes it easier to cope with. Having borrowed an exquisitely cosy rabbit lined anorak from Frilly certainly helps. To the friends expressing their horror at my wearing of fur- a thought for you- try waiting for a cab in -12 without a fur and see how your opinion changes.... :-) Anyway, rabbits are pests.
I suspect I may have started a fire with that burst of capriciousness..!
Anyway. The snow is wonderful. As surprisingly is the freezing fog. I feel like a lock-jawed ninny staring glazed eyed from the taxi window at cars buried in snow, and like a cool-clime novice when I express surprise at aircraft casually parked on unnatural and abandoned angles aside the runway.
Could I live in it? Certainly not. But as a visitor whose time is made finite here by the prospect of snow on Thursday and the inflexible conditions of my return ticket, the snow is delicious.
As is the prospect of 8 uninterupted hours of sleep. Starting now.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
This Year and Next
It is now 6 full months that I have been here in London. That, and the fact that we are knocking on the door of 2008 has made me tres reflective. A bit of introspection never hurt anyone did it?
For a start, I have made for resolutions for the New Year. Your assistance with a couple of them is being solicited and actively encouraged.
1) I am going to learn to make a fantastic meat and potato pie - never fail crowd pleaser :-)
2) Further to the above, I am going to learn to make a kick-ass lasagna - given that as a child I repeatedly answered "lasagna" when quizzed on my favourite food, it is a little bit strange that I have never made one.
*I INTEND TO TRY A NUMBER OF RECIPES OUT OVER THE COURSE OF THE NEXT FEW MONTHS AND WOULD LIKE YOU TO SHARE YOUR BEST IF YOU HAVE THEM*
3) Learn to enjoy having a bath - many people would know that while I have no aversion to 'bathe-ing' generally, but that I have for some time loathed baths. I have diagnosed this as being directly symptomatic of my inability to relax, and therefore have prescribed for myself a new years resolution to force myself to get over this.
4) Finally and perhaps most importantly - in the new year I am going to stop not doing things, because I don't have anyone to do them with. There is a slightly melancholic tinge to this resolution I suppose, given that my occasional lonerism is due to my ongoing single-ness. However, there are many things that I want to do in this city while I have the fortune of living here, and so damn it, I am going to do them alone-or-no. Theatre, museums, galleries, even holidays - in 2008 I shall unleash my inner pal. :-)
So that's my resolutions. What do you think? I think they are achievable - there is no point making resolutions like 'in 2008 I am going to do the things that I have been resolving to do on December 31 for every year of my life in recent memory'. If ya ain't lost that 5Kg/quit smoking/been on that holiday yet - another new years resolution ain't gonna help.
There are other things I want to achieve in 2008 of course, another notable one being to do some semi-competitive running, given my new found affinity with the treadmill. I also want to travel more within the UK to cities like Bath, Norwich, Torquay, Leeds, Bristol, Manchester, Cardiff, Glasgow and Edinburgh. Realistically I might get to 3 or 4 of them, and I am starting to plan this now. For all it's flaws, this is a beautiful country, and I take great delight in observing the subtle regional differences that even a journey of 5Km can reveal. As someone once said 'there's nowt as queer as folk'. Meeting as many of them as I can, will if nothing else, keep life interesting.
So that's the resolutions. Now for the retrospective.
I think 2007 for me will over time demonstrate itself to be a fairly important year. I flew the coop, slogged my way to admission as a lawyer and moved countries alone. I think that I have also learned in the last year, but really in the last couple, to chill out more and enjoy life as it comes.
I was mildly alarmed when flicking through a book in a bookshop today, to read that Einstein believed that at 25 you have pretty much achieve most of your potential and have set yourself on your life's trajectory (your parabola of success or failure?). A bloody depressing thought don't you think? I am not sure that I agree, but then again, as a 25-and-a-quarter year old, I wouldn't would I?
But I digress.
I have thought quite hard about this, and have listed what I consider to be the highlights and lowlights of the year that was. I will probably re-read this tomorrow and kick myself for missing out some pivotal moment, but if so, I guess it's my prerogative to edit it covertly. So ner.
Highlights of 2007 (in no particular order)
Lowlights of 2007
Without question this next six months will be tough- make or break if you will. They will also be unfailingly interesting, busy, challenging and exciting. Beginning the year with four international trips ought to set the tone.
So for now I shall bid you adieu fair-readers. Please don't forget to give me your recipes if you have good ones. I shall at least succeed in two of my resolutions.
NB - As an addendum to this diatribe of self-indulgence, please be advised that I had a wonderful christmas spanning four equally welcoming homes, with the cherry atop the week being a night out in Blackburn, the neighbouring town to Burnley where I was born. Thankfully I uploaded a few pics to the photostream yesterday prior to having my camera, blackberry and scarf pinched from my handbag (they didn't want the bag, or my lovely new gloves, or my new perfume), so all is not lost. :-(
For a start, I have made for resolutions for the New Year. Your assistance with a couple of them is being solicited and actively encouraged.
1) I am going to learn to make a fantastic meat and potato pie - never fail crowd pleaser :-)
2) Further to the above, I am going to learn to make a kick-ass lasagna - given that as a child I repeatedly answered "lasagna" when quizzed on my favourite food, it is a little bit strange that I have never made one.
*I INTEND TO TRY A NUMBER OF RECIPES OUT OVER THE COURSE OF THE NEXT FEW MONTHS AND WOULD LIKE YOU TO SHARE YOUR BEST IF YOU HAVE THEM*
3) Learn to enjoy having a bath - many people would know that while I have no aversion to 'bathe-ing' generally, but that I have for some time loathed baths. I have diagnosed this as being directly symptomatic of my inability to relax, and therefore have prescribed for myself a new years resolution to force myself to get over this.
4) Finally and perhaps most importantly - in the new year I am going to stop not doing things, because I don't have anyone to do them with. There is a slightly melancholic tinge to this resolution I suppose, given that my occasional lonerism is due to my ongoing single-ness. However, there are many things that I want to do in this city while I have the fortune of living here, and so damn it, I am going to do them alone-or-no. Theatre, museums, galleries, even holidays - in 2008 I shall unleash my inner pal. :-)
So that's my resolutions. What do you think? I think they are achievable - there is no point making resolutions like 'in 2008 I am going to do the things that I have been resolving to do on December 31 for every year of my life in recent memory'. If ya ain't lost that 5Kg/quit smoking/been on that holiday yet - another new years resolution ain't gonna help.
There are other things I want to achieve in 2008 of course, another notable one being to do some semi-competitive running, given my new found affinity with the treadmill. I also want to travel more within the UK to cities like Bath, Norwich, Torquay, Leeds, Bristol, Manchester, Cardiff, Glasgow and Edinburgh. Realistically I might get to 3 or 4 of them, and I am starting to plan this now. For all it's flaws, this is a beautiful country, and I take great delight in observing the subtle regional differences that even a journey of 5Km can reveal. As someone once said 'there's nowt as queer as folk'. Meeting as many of them as I can, will if nothing else, keep life interesting.
So that's the resolutions. Now for the retrospective.
I think 2007 for me will over time demonstrate itself to be a fairly important year. I flew the coop, slogged my way to admission as a lawyer and moved countries alone. I think that I have also learned in the last year, but really in the last couple, to chill out more and enjoy life as it comes.
I was mildly alarmed when flicking through a book in a bookshop today, to read that Einstein believed that at 25 you have pretty much achieve most of your potential and have set yourself on your life's trajectory (your parabola of success or failure?). A bloody depressing thought don't you think? I am not sure that I agree, but then again, as a 25-and-a-quarter year old, I wouldn't would I?
But I digress.
I have thought quite hard about this, and have listed what I consider to be the highlights and lowlights of the year that was. I will probably re-read this tomorrow and kick myself for missing out some pivotal moment, but if so, I guess it's my prerogative to edit it covertly. So ner.
Highlights of 2007 (in no particular order)
- Discovering Balzac
- Discovering Sufjan Stevens
- Discovering the weird and occasionally unnerving joy of travelling solo
- The Adelaide Weekend
- Living in Norwood with Erina
- Visiting Eastern Europe for the first time
- The Car Man at Sadler's Wells
- My friends
- Living with Frilly!!
- The Labor election win in Australia (as sweet as candy!)
- Labour Party Conference, meeting fellow politicos and seeing David 'the dish' Miliband speak three times (I'm being slightly tongue in cheek for those of you who care...)
- The day in August where I fell in love with London while sitting on the balcony drinking wine and staring dreamy-eyed into the darkening evening sky
Lowlights of 2007
- Being homesick
- Having my handbag and camera stolen in Fulham (that was last night by the way)
- The British winter
- Men (though I remain hopeful...)
- Being in London for the Aussie Labor victory
- The flagging fortunes of the British Labour Party
- Saying goodbye to Erina's wardrobe of glory
- The times where I haven't been true or honest to myself
- That day in June where I had to say goodbye to all my dearest friends and family in one big fat soul-crushing hit.
Without question this next six months will be tough- make or break if you will. They will also be unfailingly interesting, busy, challenging and exciting. Beginning the year with four international trips ought to set the tone.
So for now I shall bid you adieu fair-readers. Please don't forget to give me your recipes if you have good ones. I shall at least succeed in two of my resolutions.
NB - As an addendum to this diatribe of self-indulgence, please be advised that I had a wonderful christmas spanning four equally welcoming homes, with the cherry atop the week being a night out in Blackburn, the neighbouring town to Burnley where I was born. Thankfully I uploaded a few pics to the photostream yesterday prior to having my camera, blackberry and scarf pinched from my handbag (they didn't want the bag, or my lovely new gloves, or my new perfume), so all is not lost. :-(
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Mulled Wine
My toes were very cold at the point this picture was taken. My tummy on the other hand, was not. :-)
Tis The Season
I promised you that I would blog soon, properly. And here I am!
Yesterday. on a trip down to the German Christmas Markets in Kingston, I went into the computer shop and did what I should have done weeks ago. I bit the bullet and bought a new keyboard. Hurrah.
And for your sake, I wish I could say that a lot has happened since I last wrote on here. Alas it has not.
I have been working, sleeping, eating, going to the gym and preparing bit by bit for the next week or so of hysteria. You would think that being here and largely isolated from the majority of people with whom I have spent the last 24 years sharing christmas, my schedule might be devoid of appointments.
On the contrary, each night this week brings dinner with different friends, work functions of various stripes (bearing in mind that I have already had two work christmas 'do's') and then a frantic Friday night of preparation before I begin the pilgrimage in a northerly direction to spend Christmas with a combination of family, family friends, and new pals.
It's all rather busy, and nice. I do miss home though, and am rather homesick at the moment. The weather and short days certainly doesn't help (thank god for all the endorphins that I treat my brain to with my thrice-weekly gym sesh, otherwise I have no doubt I would be utterly depressed!). The upside to this cold christmas however, is the new and heretofore unexperienced christmas treats. For a start, people have real christmas trees. Yeah, like ones that grow in the ground.
But that is merely the beginning my friends. If I had a pound for every time I have drunk mulled wine in December, I might have actually be able to afford the Biba dress that I turned down (with great restraint) at their sample sale on Friday ;-). All the sandwich shops have various incarnations of a 'christmas sandwich' on sale which entail basically a roast dinner slapped between two slices of bread. Mmmmmm.
I went down to Kingston yesterday for the christmas markets, as I mentioned above, and they were cool. Kingston itself wasn't too bad either ( a bit of a shopping mecca....definitely contemplating a visit during the January sales.....). It does feel like christmas, but a different kind of christmas. I shall miss dearly on the 25th though, the annual seafood feast at Uncle Kev's. Moreton Bay Bugs. Crayfish. Prawns. Oysters. (Why does everything relate to food at the moment by the way?)
I shall remember my visit to Kingston forever, if only for the fact that I bought my first hat. I remember when I first arrived in London and was discussing winter with Frilly- who said 'oh yes, and you will need a hat Delly'. 'Pah', I said, 'Not I'. And yesterday I bought a hat. So that shows you who knew better doesn't it. It is cream, and wooly, and makes me look a bit like a baker boy. I tried on some berets but they do not suit my moon-shaped mug.
Today I was lucky enough to be invited to lunch with a friend from Adelaide, and a bunch of other people that I know from home plus new acquaintances. Anyway, snaps for Alice, who stuffed and cooked an entire turkey herself. And to Kate, who made a delightful sticky toffee pudding and apple crumble. And to Cat, for her M&M cookies. I contributed very little, apart from loaned crockery and cutlery, some wine, and of course, the privilege of my wit and company for the afternoon. :-) I learned today, that turkey apparently contains a natural sedative which (unsurprisingly) makes you very sleepy after you have eaten it in large quantities. I have since verified that this is true. Click here.
Perhaps predictably then, we all waddled home far earlier than scheduled. And so it is that I am wrapping some more presents, doing some washing, and planning the week ahead.
Fortunately, work isn't overly busy so i should be able to get out on time most evenings this week. January on the other hand, is looking like it will be an international odyssey of grand proportions. This is utterly exciting, apart from when I remember that I will be working in Eastern Europe in the depths of winter. I need to investigate the potential purchase of fur-lined boots, and some longjohns. Yep, I can hear you swooning.
My boss will be going on maternity leave shortly after I return from Oz (Feb 15-25th!!!) and so before she is banned from flying anywhere, we are squeezing in as much as we possibly can. The plan is about 4 trips in mid-late January, including Moscow, Bucharest, Prague, Warsaw and possibly Budapest. (I can just see those air-miles adding up........hooray!) So the first bit of the year is going to be madness. But very exciting madness.
Righto. You've all probably fallen asleep now and/or aren't even reading this in the first place because you gave up on me ever blogging again. But that's the state of things at this point in time.
I doubt I shall be on here before christmas, and perhaps not even before the new year. S o to entertain you until then I have uploaded some well-overdue pictures, including some of the Flat 93 Sexy Christmas Party which ransacked its way through my house last weekend. :-)
Hohoho. Bah humbug. All the rest. Eat a prawn for me, and think of me over here freezing, with the colour slowly leaching from my skin, but full of mulled wine, minced pies and turkey tiptoeing along the icy pavements whilst trying to keep my eyes open in spite of natural sedatives.
Until 2008. Mwah.
Yesterday. on a trip down to the German Christmas Markets in Kingston, I went into the computer shop and did what I should have done weeks ago. I bit the bullet and bought a new keyboard. Hurrah.
And for your sake, I wish I could say that a lot has happened since I last wrote on here. Alas it has not.
I have been working, sleeping, eating, going to the gym and preparing bit by bit for the next week or so of hysteria. You would think that being here and largely isolated from the majority of people with whom I have spent the last 24 years sharing christmas, my schedule might be devoid of appointments.
On the contrary, each night this week brings dinner with different friends, work functions of various stripes (bearing in mind that I have already had two work christmas 'do's') and then a frantic Friday night of preparation before I begin the pilgrimage in a northerly direction to spend Christmas with a combination of family, family friends, and new pals.
It's all rather busy, and nice. I do miss home though, and am rather homesick at the moment. The weather and short days certainly doesn't help (thank god for all the endorphins that I treat my brain to with my thrice-weekly gym sesh, otherwise I have no doubt I would be utterly depressed!). The upside to this cold christmas however, is the new and heretofore unexperienced christmas treats. For a start, people have real christmas trees. Yeah, like ones that grow in the ground.
But that is merely the beginning my friends. If I had a pound for every time I have drunk mulled wine in December, I might have actually be able to afford the Biba dress that I turned down (with great restraint) at their sample sale on Friday ;-). All the sandwich shops have various incarnations of a 'christmas sandwich' on sale which entail basically a roast dinner slapped between two slices of bread. Mmmmmm.
I went down to Kingston yesterday for the christmas markets, as I mentioned above, and they were cool. Kingston itself wasn't too bad either ( a bit of a shopping mecca....definitely contemplating a visit during the January sales.....). It does feel like christmas, but a different kind of christmas. I shall miss dearly on the 25th though, the annual seafood feast at Uncle Kev's. Moreton Bay Bugs. Crayfish. Prawns. Oysters. (Why does everything relate to food at the moment by the way?)
I shall remember my visit to Kingston forever, if only for the fact that I bought my first hat. I remember when I first arrived in London and was discussing winter with Frilly- who said 'oh yes, and you will need a hat Delly'. 'Pah', I said, 'Not I'. And yesterday I bought a hat. So that shows you who knew better doesn't it. It is cream, and wooly, and makes me look a bit like a baker boy. I tried on some berets but they do not suit my moon-shaped mug.
Today I was lucky enough to be invited to lunch with a friend from Adelaide, and a bunch of other people that I know from home plus new acquaintances. Anyway, snaps for Alice, who stuffed and cooked an entire turkey herself. And to Kate, who made a delightful sticky toffee pudding and apple crumble. And to Cat, for her M&M cookies. I contributed very little, apart from loaned crockery and cutlery, some wine, and of course, the privilege of my wit and company for the afternoon. :-) I learned today, that turkey apparently contains a natural sedative which (unsurprisingly) makes you very sleepy after you have eaten it in large quantities. I have since verified that this is true. Click here.
Perhaps predictably then, we all waddled home far earlier than scheduled. And so it is that I am wrapping some more presents, doing some washing, and planning the week ahead.
Fortunately, work isn't overly busy so i should be able to get out on time most evenings this week. January on the other hand, is looking like it will be an international odyssey of grand proportions. This is utterly exciting, apart from when I remember that I will be working in Eastern Europe in the depths of winter. I need to investigate the potential purchase of fur-lined boots, and some longjohns. Yep, I can hear you swooning.
My boss will be going on maternity leave shortly after I return from Oz (Feb 15-25th!!!) and so before she is banned from flying anywhere, we are squeezing in as much as we possibly can. The plan is about 4 trips in mid-late January, including Moscow, Bucharest, Prague, Warsaw and possibly Budapest. (I can just see those air-miles adding up........hooray!) So the first bit of the year is going to be madness. But very exciting madness.
Righto. You've all probably fallen asleep now and/or aren't even reading this in the first place because you gave up on me ever blogging again. But that's the state of things at this point in time.
I doubt I shall be on here before christmas, and perhaps not even before the new year. S o to entertain you until then I have uploaded some well-overdue pictures, including some of the Flat 93 Sexy Christmas Party which ransacked its way through my house last weekend. :-)
Hohoho. Bah humbug. All the rest. Eat a prawn for me, and think of me over here freezing, with the colour slowly leaching from my skin, but full of mulled wine, minced pies and turkey tiptoeing along the icy pavements whilst trying to keep my eyes open in spite of natural sedatives.
Until 2008. Mwah.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
The Weather
It is -1 right now. There was ice on the ground this morning. I almost slipped.
On a brighter note, it is sunny. But because it is sunny, there are no clouds, and it is -1.
Nature works in mysterious cyclical ways.
And in December in London, they are cold ways.
Brrrrrrrrr.
(PS I will post properly soon I promise - my laptop is still lacking a spacebar, and it takes me so long to type and i have no patience, so as soon as i have a minute to go into a computer shop I shall be purchasing a new keyboard.....and there will be a new post from me.)
On a brighter note, it is sunny. But because it is sunny, there are no clouds, and it is -1.
Nature works in mysterious cyclical ways.
And in December in London, they are cold ways.
Brrrrrrrrr.
(PS I will post properly soon I promise - my laptop is still lacking a spacebar, and it takes me so long to type and i have no patience, so as soon as i have a minute to go into a computer shop I shall be purchasing a new keyboard.....and there will be a new post from me.)
Saturday, November 24, 2007
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