You know you're in your thirties when...

...the hotel staff wish you a Happy Mother's Day.

I mean, lady, I am well aware I've been steadily putting on weight for a while now (my mellow-making drugs and too damn many delicious cakes are the main culprits) - and yes, I am aware that a childless woman in her thirties is something of a bizarre curio in your family-centric culture - but really. For a minute there I was enjoying the novel sensation of actually filling out my unpadded bikini top, enough so that I could ignore the plumper new bits further south.

Isn't life just one big series of trade-offs for women? Skinny no-boobs or chubby McBooberson. Boring safe guy or dashing cad. Chocolate honey-comb or pink grapefruit (can't do both together! Or CAN you...). Faithful werewolf or moody vampire.

*sigh*

Melbourne Dreaming turns 4!

Four big years, people! I'm finally feeling the thaw after a Winter that well and truly beat my ass down, down, down.

Spring is finally here. Happy days.

This side of the blue

I'm going to be brutally honest for a moment here. Not that I am ever anything but, but you know how it is. You want to present the best side of yourself, glossing over the dull, scared, frazzled, sad, frustrated bits. I figure, no one wants to read about someone who is depressed (unless they can twist their take on mental illness to make it hilarious, à la the magnificent Dooce).

But the truth is, I have been having a hard time of it. I'm desperate to go home, feeling lonely and strung out, not enjoying my work and wondering if my life will ever be settled. It's been so tough. I am trying to help myself. I am taking anti-depressants (they are helping me to get some sleep, but have had no impact on my mood - my brain is surprisingly, stubbornly resistant to any kind of chemicals) and seeing a psychologist to try and sort some long-standing stuff out.

Blah-low-self-esteem-moan-no-one-listened-to-me-blab-overly-critical-parents-yada-yada. The same issues many of us share, but that some of us struggle with more than others.

Late the other night, on my way home after a long and emotionally fraught day, I stopped at the corner store for some ice-cream. I plonked the tub down defiantly on the counter, back straight, daring the shopkeeper to show any trace of pity in his eyes. I marched out into the cold night, tub safely stowed in my backpack, thinking of nothing but home.

I was almost there when I came across a group of guys walking in the opposite direction, talking too loudly and swaggering in a way that was designed to intimidate anyone in their path. I could feel the aggression coming off them in waves, and I was immediately on my guard. I tried to walk with more confidence so that I wouldn't betray my fear, but I hastened my steps as I drew nearer to my front door. As I fumbled with my keys, I could hear them talking about whether they should join me. Finally the key turned in the lock and I hurried inside, turning to slam the door on their leering faces. It was only then that I realised how heightened my state of anxiety had become - my hands were trembling and nerve endings were sending little electric shocks down my arms, and I suddenly felt so tired that I could have collapsed under my own weight.

It was a terrible ending to a not-good day, and I don't think I've ever been quite so relieved to climb into bed in my warm, safe house with a bowl of ice-cream. I savoured the delicious combination of marscarpone, passionfruit and truffles that Mr. Häagen-Dazs had prepared for me, and I felt better.

I highly recommend it. The ice-cream that is, not the being-threatened-on-your-way-home-late-at-night.

Achievements, setbacks, change and no change: 2009

At the beginning of this year, I decided this was going to be a year of personal growth for me. And of course it was, like every year is. Whether you like it or not, time passes, you grow older, good stuff happens, bad stuff happens, some things change, some things stay frustratingly, exasperatingly, the same. You break up with someone. You renew your visa. You move home. Meet new people. Call your parents. Book holidays. Try a new class. Fill out your timesheets. Say goodbye.

One of the things that has forced me to take stock recently is having to detail every one of my absences from the UK for the past 4 years as part of my Permanent Residency application. I have had to look carefully through my passport, noting all the stamps that have shown my movement through various air and sea ports since 2006. Tellingly, the number of days I have spent outside of the UK has crept up every year, but most especially this past year. 2009 is the only year I've taken two trips back home in twelve months. When I first came over, it was more likely to be 18-24 months between visits to Melbourne. My visa stamps tell a parallel story: here's me with short red hair in 2003, shiny with sweat after running to the post office in 40 degree heat to get my passport picture taken in a lunch break; in 2005 with long, mousey hair (my first English boyfriend prefered it natural); in 2006 with even longer hair piled over one shoulder, chubby with happy domestication; and in 2008, resignedly single again, Winter-pale with newly bobbed hair, rugged up in a friend's left-behind Winter coat.

My newest passport picture will show me with a short fringe, dyed honey-blonde hair, my face a little gaunt from the stress and lack of sleep of the past 5 months or so. Everyone I've seen on this trip has commented on how thin I am, and how pale ("You've turned into a pasty pom!"). I hadn't realised.

So what have I achieved this past year? I've been to four new places - Brussels, in Belgium; the Cinque Terra in Italy; Tolmin in Slovenia; and the Scottish Highlands. Undergone a four day Introduction to Psychosynthesis course, during which I had a profoundly moving experience during one particular therapy session. I've started volunteering regularly at a local Primary School, reading with a couple of gorgeous year 1 and 2 kids. Completed a four day acting course. Moved home twice. Given online dating another go (tentatively, because my heart isn't quite in it). Taken up knitting like every other single girl did in the noughties, although all I have to show for it so far is one rather wonky scarf which my Dad is going to be the proud recipient of come Christmas Day.

And I've decided to move home to Australia after I get my citizenship. Apparently I qualify in February, a full year earlier than I expected to. I'm not counting my chickens though, because in my experience? Those Home Office motherf*ckers like to change the rules every 6 months or so, just to mess with my mind.

Melancholy weekend

What do you get if you mix:

1. The end of daylight savings, meaning the darkness is starting to close in;

2. Having to say goodbye to a good friend who made the working day that much easier to bear (how dare she defect to Australia with her lovely English boyfriend in order to pursue their future together!);

3. A critical lack of chocolate in the vicinity;

4. A realisation that this is the longest you've not been in a serious relationship for... well, ever; and

5. A week of not very good sleep.

Any guesses? No?

Well, let me enlighten you. What've got yourself is a serious case of the sucks.

Playing against type

Phew [wipes sweat theatrically from brow]. I've just completed a four-day intensive acting course. After my well-rehearsed but poorly-acted Shakespeare monologue on the second day, the famously cruel director of the school made me sit down and asked me why I'd come on the course. I had been utterly petrified, to the point where I was on the verge of tears and/or fainting, and it showed. I got the words out, and they were "immaculate" according to him, but I was so paralysed with terror that I could only stand there like a post.

I'm pretty sure Juliet would have been pacing, flitting to the window and back, and making gestures of impatience as she waits for the nurse to return with a message from her beloved Romeo. But the most I could manage was to swivel my torso from left to right. My feet might as well have been super-glued to the ground.

Why? Why put myself through that? That's what I've been asking myself all week. But apart from that horrible moment (and it was only a moment), the rest of the course was really quite good fun. For me, as I tried to explain to the director, it was a kind of personal challenge - my own personal Everest, if you like (well, maybe just Base Camp). For an introvert like me, the thought of performing in front of an audience is far more challenging than the prospect of climbing a mountain. I know I could train to climb a mountain, and make sure I had the right equipment and support. The thought of it doesn't scare me at all. Even jumping off a waterfall didn't compare in the fear stakes to what I went through this week.

Before I went on the course, I would never have imagined that I could sing on my own in front of an entire class, or complete a serious dramatic scene in front of a small audience. For me, just getting through it was a little victory.

I particularly enjoyed the stage-fighting - especially the fencing - and the game of theatrical wink-murder we played afterwards. I thought my "stabbbed in the back" was really quite convincing. But my favourite part - which the teacher assured us was everyone's favourite part by the end of the four days - was the musical number. We learned "A Real Nice Clam-bake" from Carousel, and then performed it as a group, each of us singing a solo line or two from the verses. It left me on a wonderful, warm-hearted high. Maybe that's the point of musicals - they are much more fun for the actors than they are for the audience.

One of the boys from the class - a sweetheart who reminded me a lot of Omar from The Wire - told me afterwards that I should think about getting into some am-dram. I would have laughed and told him he was crazy a week ago, but now I find myself considering it.

Maybe I should start a theatre group for introverts. The In Crowd? Let Us Intertain You? If we could get the audience to sit behind a one-way mirror and not make any noise, it might just work.

Good times for a change

A while ago, as part of my ongoing efforts to be less cynical and to take postive action towards alleviating my depression, I made a decision - albeit a guilt-ridden one - to curb my exposure to the news. Yes, being aware of what is going on in the world is important - and I realise that some people will be horrified by this admission - but some time back I decided that my mental health was more important to me than knowing all about what's going on outside my door.

Watching or reading the news in the UK makes me anxious, feaful and unhappy. I am not sure what it is about this country and its presentation of current events, but much of the time it seems there are only two kinds of coverage - the gloomy and the inane. It doesn't help that my father, who worked as a film editor at a news station in Melbourne for many years, had a very low opinion of the manipulative nature of the media and the self-important unscrupulousness of the journalists who worked there.

Checking the BBC news site now and again is about as much as I will tolerate now, and that's only because it gives the user some semblance of control over what they are ingesting.

Every now and again, however, a story bucks the trend by reaffirming my faith in humankind. So it is that I heard of Lloyd Gardener, a young man who came forward with information relating to a horrific rape case, and subsequently donated the £10,000 witness reward money he received to the victim of the crime. Decent.

I experienced some Pure Human Decency (PHD) myself recently while cycling home late one night, when a motorcyclist pulled up next to me at the lights and warned me I'd lost my rear light a way back. I thanked him and hopped off, cursing my bad luck - cycling through London at night without a rear light is a bit too kamikaze for my liking - and started walking back down the busy street to see if I could find it. Just as it was dawning on me how hopeless the task was, a Japanese couple walked up to me, the woman's cupped hands extended towards me with a hopeful smile on her face. They had seen me lose my light, fetched it from the gutter and waited for me to come back. I smiled broadly and thanked them profusely, while they bowed and smiled back at me. It was a lovely moment of human connection amid the chaos of Tottenham Court Road on a Friday night.

* * * *

If you'd like to partake of some PHD, consider joining the Karma Army. You don't even have to sign up if you don't want to, you can just practice some random acts of kindness under your own steam. Not newsworthy, perhaps, but definitely worthy.

Melancholy beauty

Breaks my heart all over again. Can't wait to see these guys live.

How much more can a deeply cynical/hopeless romantic take?

There comes a time in every single girl's life (so far, so frickin' Carrie Bradshaw, right?) when she feels that she is done with the whole search. Done. Over it. She is at the end of her tether, and she just can't summon the energy to even think about putting herself back out there. Her options at this point seem to be:

1. convert to lesbianism;
2. become a nun; or
3. get cats.

None of these options are open to me because:

1. I like boys;
2. I like boys; and
3. I'm allergic.

Picture this scenario. You meet a guy, a lovely, tall, kind-eyed guy who you stumble across in the course of your everyday life and, after enjoying a long and rambly chat outside in the sunshine, pluck up the courage to ask him out for a coffee. He says yes. The stuff of daydreams.

So you meet up for a date in an intimate venue and it's going really well - the attraction is apparent, you talk about all sorts of things, and the more time you spend together the more you discover you have in common. A love of folk music. A disdain of alarm clocks. A belief in the revolutionary power of cycling.

A couple of hours fly by.

And then, just as he is saying how glad he is that you asked him out, and is suggesting that you meet up again soon at a place he knows, you make an off-handed comment about how scary it was asking him out, when you didn't even know if he had a girlfriend or not.

He squirms. He says "What if I told you that I do have a girlfriend? And a son?"

WHAT. IN. HOLY. HELL.

The "date" ends shortly thereafter.

So. Not the worst date I've ever been on (I'll blog about that another time), but definitely in my Top 3 All-Time Shitty Dates. Being single in your thirties sure does suck sometimes.

The fourth rule of online dating is... don't lose heart

A while back - about a year and a half ago now - I took a leap into the world of online dating (which you can read about here). I was lucky; my experience was a positive one overall, and thankfully weirdo- and creep-free. I went on several nice enough meetings/dates with dudes of varying attractiveness; the loveliest of whom I found myself in a verging-on-serious relationship with. Ultimately however, we had to face up to the unavoidable fact that we are at different stages in our lives - and that was that.

In my experience, heart-break only gets harder to recover from the older you are. However [grits teeth], I try to remind myself that there are some consolations to be had from growing older - it is only at this point in my life, for instance, that I have felt confident enough about my body to wear a mini-skirt. Not that my legs are better than they were in my twenties; it's just that now I am that much less prone to giving a sh*t about the imperfections.

There's a spirit of recklessness that kicks in during your thirties - I've only got a few mini-skirt wearing years left, so might as well get my pins out, no? Maybe I will get that tattoo after all...

But back to the point: I've gathered the pieces, dusted myself off, and have been thinking about giving the whole cyber-dating thing another whirl. Despite the fact that I have been just one text message away from bitter (to paraphrase Carrie Bradshaw) - and have felt like dropping out of the game altogether at various points - when it comes down to it I'm a romantic at heart. I believe love is our only real purpose in this crazy mixed-up world - to give love, to accept love and to cultivate love in our hearts defines us as human beings in my opinion.

And it couldn't hurt to meet a few more nice English guys, surely.

However, I want to be fully ready before I throw myself back in there. Internet dating is most decidedly not for the faint of heart. I want to be in that strong, resilient, contented place I was in when I originally signed up and logged on.

I'm nearly there. I'm hovering at the edge of the water in my bathers, my toes curling around the ledge as I give myself a little pep talk and take a deep breath...

Home's face: how it ages when you're away

I am thirty-two years old. My last relationship broke up because I wasn't twenty-seven instead*. Shame. It hit me quite hard afterwards that actually, I am never going to be twenty-seven again; and that I'm only going to get older from here on in - what sort of a stupid system is that?! Time is annoyingly, rigidly, out-datedly linear; like analogue television. As a child who came of age during the digital revolution (I'm a paid-up member of the "On Demand" generation), having to conform to a linear schedule that proceeds in a ruler-straight line from birth to death just doesn't do it for me.

But there it is: I am never going to be twenty-seven again.

Or, to put it another way: this is as young and as free as I'll ever be.

That simple statement of truth can be an uplifting affirmation or a despairing lament, depending on my mood.

Some days I am so grateful for the incredible freedoms I enjoy - the freedom to work (even though it doesn't always feel like a "freedom", I never forget that it is a hard-won privilege), the freedom to be independent; to travel; to earn money and buy things that make my life comfortable and enjoyable. The freedom to choose a partner (and the freedom to reject inappropriate ones). The freedom to wear colourful sundresses - or indeed, whatever I choose. The incredible freedom of having time that is my own and the freedom to do whatever I like with it; which I never take for granted (even though I waste a lot of it lolling about doing bugger all).

The freedom to ride a bike.

The freedom to sunbathe.

The freedom to walk around a city by myself.

The freedom to drive along the coast (although it's been a long time since I took advantage of this one).

The freedom to listen to my favourite music.

The freedom to explore the internet.

...and other days, I just wish I was twenty-seven again.

*I hasten to add that it wasn't a case of my ex wanting to trade me in for a younger model - shame on you for thinking I would waste my time on that kind of guy! - it's just that we are at very different stages in our lives and couldn't reconcile the gap.

Share house living for introverts

Last weekend I moved* into a big new home. A new home with four other (extremely lovely) people. Four of 'em though! That's the most people I've ever lived with in my life, apart from when I was growing up in a family of five (and I don't believe that counts because we were a family of hermits).

Lovely though all my new housemates are, I admitted to a friend last week that I was a little aprehensive about how I would cope with such a big share-house situation and confessed that I was treating it as an experiment (with me as the guinea pig).

I have finally come to terms with the fact that I am a true introvert, but other people rarely seem to understand why I need time and space on my own in order to not go totally bat-shit crazy. Non-introverted people just don't get this at all; and it's hard to feel you aren't being constantly judged by the majority of extroverted people who just can't fathom why you wouldn't want company for every little aspect of your life. One girl had her brother tell her, "we didn't know you were introverted; we just thought you were a bitch", and I'm sure there are a slew of people I've come across in my life who thought that of me; or maybe just that I was shy, aloof, snobby or very quiet.

Man, introverts get some bad press.

To help with the adjustment, I have tried to make my room as much of a haven as possible (it's a lovely big, quiet room on the top floor). But there is much to love about the rest of this rambling house (besides the people, natch) - we have a backyard with a barbeque, goldfish, 5 people's worth of kitchen gadgets, and OMG Sky TV! We also have a seriously big kitchen, and I am looking forward to getting stuck into some serious baking for my new flatties. It's been a long time between muffin batches.

Anyway, I'll let you know how it goes. Fingers crossed it doesn't go horribly wrong...


* This will be my ninth address in eleven years. It's fair to say that I am a bit of an expert with the moving now. The secret is to get boys to help you.

Music to be miserable to

Courtesy of the shuffle function this morning. As if I wasn't feeling gloomy enough already!

A Glow - Okkervil River
Hope there's someone - Antony & The Johnsons
What Can I Do? - Rufus Wainwright
Around and around - Mark Kozolek
No One's Gonna Love You - Band of Horses

Thank god then for the next selection:

Across The Wire - Calexico
De la Orgee - De La Soul
In the Hot, Hot Rays - Fleet Foxes

Those Fleet Foxes boys - how I love them. Listening to their music is like floating in a pond with that golden, late afternoon sunshine warming your skin - soul-soothing, gentle, uplifting.

Panic on the streets of London

Ups and downs this week, roller-coaster like.

Ups:

Ending up at indie disco Saturday night. Dancing my cons off to all the best stuff from my heyday (the Smiths, the Cure, the Breeders, Pulp, Blur, etc), lots of cool newer stuff (Vampire Weekend, Hot Chip, the Killers and...ermmm a bunch of others I'm not cool enough to know the names of), as well as the odd 80's power ballad to get all melodramatic to. Much fun 'til the early hours of Sunday morning.

Also: laughing at the utterly incongruous sight of a bunch of kids born in the late eighties/early nineties, dressed in full 80's outfits - blazers with huge square shoulder pads, lace leggings, t-shirt dresses, acid wash demin jackets etc. If I was in denial about the 80's revival before, I ain't no more.

The wonderful Australian-barista-ed coffee at my new local funkyplace. Yay!

Getting a bonus set of holiday prints from Jessops 'cos they got my order wrong the first go around and printed them all on gloss paper. I'm a designer people, I will only tolerate matte stock with white borders (I'm snobby like that).

Downs:
My wonderful flatmate of the last 1.5 years moving on. I guess it would be selfish of me to keep her captive (so she can provide me with timely relationship advice, play me her new songs and make me endless cups of Lady Grey) when she could be honing her song-writing skills in Barcelona alongside her lovely Catalan boyfriend. Goddamn him and his Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall-like good looks. (No te creas, Dani!)

Confronting a dude who tried to steal my bike lights (he apologised and gave them back, which was seriously weird/upsetting), only to have them stolen a few days later while I was blissing out at yoga. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

My mum accidentally deleting 6 months worth of emails from my Yahoo account. Arrghh!

Being single again. I have been running slow-jogging just to get my mind off it. Soundtrack kindly provided by Vampire Weekend (perky; may cause involuntary dancing).

London dreaming

I'm back from a 3 week trip to Melbourne and Sydney, and after a whirlwind of catching up with people, several light bulb moments and a ridiculously long and drawn out trip back (including, but not limited to, an unscheduled 8-hour stopover in Dubai), London is doing it's darnedest to change my mind on at least one front. While I was away, the city has burst into full-blown Spring gorgeousness; the streets are strewn with white blossoms and the trees have exploded into stunning fresh greenness.

In no particular order, here are the highly personal lightning bolts delivered to my brain from the heavens while I was away:

1. I want to feel more emotionally settled in my life
...and that's not going to happen while I'm living away from home and family. Foolishly, I have been waiting for a man to provide me with this feeling of being emotionally "settled", and I now realise I have to be brave (hard for a scaredy-kitten like me) and create my own sense of stability. Now all I need to decide is, is it worth sacrificing another 12 months or so and qualifying for UK residency? Right now I feel like I could move home tomorrow without a backwards glance, but I am well aware that is not how I might feel in a year or two.

Answers on the back of a postcard, please.

2. I want a place I can call my own
Not exactly a revelation, but I am excited about the idea of buying my own place in Melbourne - probably a pitifully small one-bedder in a drug-infested neighbourhood what with house prices being as loopy as they are, but hey ho! It will be my pitifully small one-bedder in a drug-infested neighbourhood.

3. Moving back home does not have to spell the end of my adventures
I could always relocate to Sydney if I get bored of Melbourne (having outgrown my disdain for the unofficial capital of Australia). Or New Zealand, which I hear is gorgeous - and they have some seriously cute ambassadors. Or Japan. Or Beijing! They are crying out for Western designers over there. Now that would be an adventure, not to mention a proper culture shock compared to sedate old London. The point is, moving back is not the end of my life as I know it. It's just the beginning of a new chapter. And I can always come back to London to visit, on a tourist visa. Shudder.

4. I don't want to be a teacher
For a while I was thinking about a major career change. But it hit me with some force while I was away that - although I love spending one morning a week working with kids in the classroom - I am just not teacher material. Seriously, you need metric tons of energy to be a teacher, and you spend more time preparing lessons and trying to get the kids to sit down, shut up and listen than you spend actually teaching. It's an incredible job, but I'm just not up to it.

Hopefully my friend's gorgeous kids (and any future nieces and nephews) will provide all the kid-liness I am currently missing in my life.

Kids are just so much fun to be around, aren't they? And they are so easily impressed - I stunned a pair of hyperactive 3 year old twins into cross-legged silence simply by performing a forward flip on their trampoline. The power really is intoxicating. I guess that's why nature invented sleep deprivation - so that parents don't get too drunk on their own power and turn into complete ego-maniacs.

5. There's no point throwing my love into a void
'nuff said, really. Randomly, I was reading this article about watching a tigress on the hunt, who is foiled at the last minute by a busload of noisy tourists, and this observation struck a chord:

"The deer sprang away in alarm. The tigress relaxed, stood up and sauntered off. Success rates in hunts are never very high for tigers and they don't appear to waste energy on frustration. Unlike us."

After reading the tense build up to this moment, I felt a pang of frustration on the tigress' behalf, at not getting what you want. I admired her ability to move on immediately, without a moment wasted on frustration or regret - even though she was, according to the writer, very lean and obviously in dire need of a meal.

*sigh* I guess that's what you get for being human (especially of the female variety) and prone to stupid one-way love affairs.

* * *

So the overall lesson here: this kitten needs to stop being distracted by balls of string and find her inner tigress.

Tug of love

I think my Dad is afraid I'm never coming home.

I guess that is a possibility. I just don't like to think that far ahead (ie. as far as never/forever). In fact, my brain simply won't go there - it just doesn't compute. I hate that stock-standard job interview qustion: Where do you see yourself in 5 years time? Who the frick knows the answer to this question?! I sure as hell don't. I have never been a goal-setter or a ladder-climber. I just want to be reasonably happy and healthy; to lead a good life and achieve some degree of inner peace. No small feat, I'm discovering.

I like the idea of staying in London long enough to qualify for UK residency, which means I would be able to travel back and forth between the two countries more easily. Some people call that 'being chronically indecisive'. Others call it 'trying to have it both ways'. I prefer to call it 'hedging my bets'.

Choosing to stay over here is a difficult decision, fraught with emotion. I can't deny that it upsets me deeply to think that my parents are hurt I have stayed over here so long (six years last February. Bloody hell!). And there is the worrying possibility that I have put off my "real" life by staying here - swanning about town going to yoga classes and gigs, drinking proper coffee and generally living the high life - when I should have been at home leading a normal, sensible life, paying off a home and knocking out babies*.

I should explain at this point that I come from quite a working class background, and that there are members of my family who cannot fathom why I would choose to run away to the other side of the earth - to England! Where it's cold and damp and crowded and the people are miserable! - when I could be back home enjoying burnt snags and beer in the blinding early evening sunshine.

God, I miss the smell of the beach. I miss the openness of the people. I miss the piercing bright light and the warm embrace of a Summer evening where you can go out in just a light cotton dress, no cardie. I miss the warble of magpies and the piping of bellbirds as you walk through the gorgeous Eucalyptus-scented bush. I miss South Melbourne market and going out for coffee and cheesecake in the evening.

I don't miss the sunburn, the mossies or the water restrictions. I don't miss the endless suburbs full of ugly houses and the barely-adequate public transport system. I don't miss having a car.

The thing that worries me most of all, of course, is that I will never fit in again back at home - that I will never settle back into Melbourne life, and that I will always be full of regret at leaving behind the eccentric, complex cultural whirlpool that is London, with its endless diversions and awesome travel opportunities.

But my family are a strong drawcard. I miss being part of their boring, everyday lives; turning up for dinner and raiding the pantry for treats just like I did as a teenager. Hugging my parents for ages and laughing uproariously at my Dad (with Mum telling me off for encouraging him). My Mum's spaghetti bolognese. I feel I have been living in a precarious, bare-knucked way since I have been away, deprived of the emotional cushioning and comfort their presence in my life provides. I miss my youngest brother, and all that has happened in his life since I have been away - asking his lovely hairdresser on a date, their increasingly serious courtship, buying his first home with her, their engagement. I am awe-struck to watch my little brother building the foundations of a proper, grown-up life for himself.

Sometimes I wish I could split myself in two and lead two separate lives; one settled down in Melbourne, the other untethered and responsibility-free in Europe. I guess I just don't know how good I've got it.

*I don't know where this voice comes from, but I wish it would shut the hell up.

Rediscovering the spark

Things guaranteed to bring a little joy into your life:

- Sparklers! Electricity on a stick. Brilliant.
- Snow and all the fun that comes with it - snowmen, snowball fights, big fat flakes drifting downwards, crunching through a pristine playground of the stuff.
- Wall-e. What a charming film. I think I am a little in love with a nerdy robot.
- Lemon and ginger dark chocolate. Oh yeah!
- Dancing, and not the usual self-consciously cool kind. Who's coming barn-dancing with me? Anyone? Anyone...?

That's it for now... but I would love to hear your suggestions!

A heapin' helpin' of self help

Wow. Today is the first day I have felt something approximating "normal" for a few weeks (possibly even months?) now. A few days of happy companionship, a good night's sleep after weeks of insomnia - yes, I finally admitted out loud to an audience that my name is Kelly and I am an insomniac - and the sun is finally breaking through the grey clouds. I don't know whether to celebrate this fact (and risk scaring it away - my moods are flighty like that) or try and trick my brain into thinking this is my normal state by acknowledging it, but not making a big deal of it.

It's such a relief to feel this way again.

I read a description of the difference between pessimists and optimists yesterday that made me stop and think:

"All of us interpret the world around us, and we tend toward seeing the world, and our life, in largely positive or negative terms. Three critical factors determine whether we take an optimistic or pessimistic view of the world: permanence, pervasiveness, and personalisation.

On permanence: Pessimists see the good things in life as being transitory, and believe that the bad things are here to stay. Optimists are the exact opposite. They see the bad things as being temporary and the good things as having more permanence."

I have always considered myself a committed pessimist, thanks in part to my Dad - the cynic's cynic - who I worshipped throughout my developmental years, like all daughters worship their fathers. However, I have come to realise that this state of mind makes me unhappy, no matter how cool I thought it was to appear world-weary and a bit sneery in high school.

The above statement really made me stop and question the way I look at my life - throughout which, I have to admit, I have always seen the happy periods as a transient respite from what I believe to be the more permanent, entrenched, core feelings of dissatisfaction and sadness. I am coming to an understanding that it is this belief that is part of the problem, possibly more so than the feelings themselves.

That simple sentence made me question my way of thinking and consider the possibility that those dark periods are the transient state in an otherwise normal, happy life. If I dig down a little deeper, I think it is because I experience those feelings so differently - happiness feels like a fleeting bubbly feeling in my chest and throat - like the fizz in champagne - whereas the sadness sits in my stomach and radiates to my extremities in miserable waves. Somehow, sadness feels more real to me. How strange.

Which brings me to:

"Personalisation: Pessimists, when things go wrong, tend to see them as a result of their own personal failings or shortcomings, but when things go well, they tend to dismiss the good fortune as “just getting lucky." However, when things go wrong for optimists, they are more likely to believe it was “just bad luck.” When things go well for optimists, they see it as a result of hard work."

This is so true of me, it's not funny. I can be optimistic about other people - I believe with every instinct in my body that people are fundamentally good - but I am terribly negative about myself, my life and my potential. For some unfathomable reason, I don't feel I deserve to be happy.

I don't know how difficult - or plausible - it is to change from a pessimist to an optimistic outlook. I seem to swing between them depending on my mood, my proximity to dark chocolate, and how much sleep I'm getting - but I am at least trying to notice when I have an automatic "negative" thought about something. Noticing is the first step. Challenging is the next. Beyond that, it's down to diligence and willpower to keep noticing and keep challenging, all the while working on propping up my fragile self-esteem.

It's hard work, this self-help business. It feels like so much of what goes on in my head is beyond my control - but it's my flippin' brain, after all! I own you, brain! Do my bidding! I can't shake the feeling that I should somehow be able to out-think my moods, outwit them - but could it be that a simple shift in perspective, if practised diligently, could be a smarter way to go about it?

Like I said, 2009 is going to be the year of self-development. Expect to be buried under an avalanche of introspective posts as I try to untangle the unholy mess that is Me.

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Things that are helping right now: Listening to the supremely gorgeous Fleet Foxes. Sharing in a friend's excitement. Watching Obama's victory speech. Reading Unweaving the Rainbow (reclaim that sense of wonder, Science!). Taking the first steps toward some volunteering opportunities. A sweet little film about two teenage odd-bods falling in love. The little school kid whose wide-eyed, open-mouthed face kept bobbing up comedically behind the stage floor last night.

Plan B

I feel I have been neglecting this blog somewhat since coming back from New York. Or perhaps I should say, coming down from New York. It was such a blissful chapter in my life.

It was hard coming back to reality. Back down to earth (literally - in New York I lived on the 29th floor and worked on the 30th, and spent many happy hours on the roof terrace of my building). Back to a job that has become rather uninspiring. Back to paying rent and bills. Back to a choice of two types of media: trash or doom; the only exception being the coverage of the US election. Even the notoriously gloomy UK media couldn't ignore the jubilant sense of hope beaming off the great American public in their coverage of the Obama victory.

Back to London in Autumn, which very quickly turned into Winter.

It hasn't all been bad - I have super busy going to loads of gigs and fun events, and there have been some interesting developments on the relationship front.

But it's fair to say that it has been a struggle. For a while there I really thought I was going to have to move back to Melbourne. I just couldn't see how I could possibly cope with living over here on my own any longer. Having my parents here was wonderful, blissful, so much fun - but when they left, I felt utterly bereft of their presence. All of a sudden, my world shrank. I was in a city on the wrong side of the world, heading into a particularly bleak Winter, and I don't think I have ever felt quite so scarily, overwhelmingly alone.

In reality, I am not alone. I have a small circle of friends here, and my great work colleagues, and my lovely flatmate. I have friends at home in Melbourne with whom I have (admittedly sporadic) contact. I have a brother in Sweden, practically next door in Australian terms. And of course, my parents and youngest brother are only a phone call (and a time-zone) away.

It has been a time of reflection and internal change for me. I guess I always assumed that at this point in my life, my main focus would be on having my own family, so I must admit (somewhat shame-facedly, given my feminist credentials) that I never focused that much on my "career". I just came out of Uni, looked for a job, stayed there until I got restless, looked for another job - and so on. It was a sense of needing to escape that drove me to London. I learnt one of the first big lessons of my life: that you can't run away from yourself. Hence my decision to stay in London for the moment - moving back home is not going to solve any of my problems (except the lack of parental/younger-brotherly contact) and would probably just create more complications than I can cope with right now.

So now I find myself at a cross-roads. I know I need to make some positive changes in my life; but what might they be? New job? New career? Back to Uni? Back to Melbourne? Go travelling? Become a mentor? Take up yodelling? For a person as change-resistant and cautious as myself, this is a scary time. But I am trying to take it slowly, in manageable chunks, taking small, exploratory bites before I make any big moves. I have started by booking myself into some short courses and introductory sessions to things that interest me.

2009 is going to be the year of self-development, y'all. I even bought a journal. An old-fashioned, lined paper journal. For writin' in. I'm not even sure I remember how to hold a pen.

I'll keep you posted.

A green-light day

Riding to work has been such a pleasure since I got back from New York. The streets are Summer-quiet, term-time-quiet, August-quiet - and with so little traffic I can sail straight through most of the minor intersections (don't tell the police). After a few weeks of trudging through my cycling routine, this morning I seemed to breeze through the city, hardly raising a sweat, through a dream run of green lights. Don't you love that?

Driving through New York, all the lights along the avenues turn green at once, so that the taxi drivers fang it the minute the light changes to catch as many as they can. Well, at least our taxi driver did on the way to Harlem one Sunday, but I'm fairly sure he was high at the time, given his breezy disregard of lane markings, barriers, cones, pedestrians and police cars. I don't blame him; even as a passenger, that endless string of green lights appears in front of you and your foot involuntarily presses to the floor.

So, I am feeling a little better than I was and had a nice time in Sweden with my newly health-conscious brother (the same brother who used to survive on two minute noodles and cocktail franks), and I am off to the Edinburgh festival this weekend which I am excited about. It is a 4.5 hour train trip, but I am well equipped with the most gigantic book known to mankind, second only to the bible: Vikram Seth's A Suitable Boy.