Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Monday, October 03, 2011
This video tells you everything you need to know about having little brothers
It's EXACTLY like this. Multiplied by many years interspersed with lots of cork legs, arm punches and giggles.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
What's your favourite memory?
Sitting across from my grandfather at his kitchen table, watching his face light up with laughter.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Home/time (part 2)
The top 3 questions I get asked since coming home:
1. What does it feel like to be back?
It feels a bit like being an astronaut who is going through a very drawn out and bumpy "re-entry" phase. Starting my life over again from scratch. Selling myself unconvincingly in job interviews. Most of all, endlessly explaining to people - strangers and friends - why I came back; why I stayed in England and in my previous job so long; why I am single again. Coming back has been rougher than I imagined. I still don't feel settled but I imagine I won't for some time yet.
2. Do I miss London?
Overall, generally, despite everything, I have not regretted the decision to come home. Even when my parents and I have bickered over the most inconsequential things, even through the moments of extreme loneliness and "everyone's settled down except me" self-pity, even when I ended up on my brother's doorstep soaked by the flooding rains and streaked with tears; I never wanted to run back to London. I have had only a couple of flickers of missing the UK - literally seconds-long - but nothing more. Just the odd "oh, wasn't the Borough Market/Hampstead Heath/St Pauls in the early evening lovely?"
3. Has Melbourne changed?
Yes, Melbourne has changed. There are more people, more shops, more traffic, more restaurants. The cars are fancier, the houses bigger, everyone seems to have an iphone. People seem better off (except the poor sods who, like me, didn't buy before the boom). But the things that were always lovely about Melbourne, are still lovely. I am enjoying so much the thrill of rediscovering my home town after having been away for so long. The hidden laneways; the religious fervour of the coffee culture; the trams rattling and dinging around town in their own sweet time; descending to the cool calm of the Yarra.
It will get easier, I tell myself. I will feel more settled soon. I won't be on my own forever. The mantra of the lonely astronaut, separated forever by his experience.
1. What does it feel like to be back?
It feels a bit like being an astronaut who is going through a very drawn out and bumpy "re-entry" phase. Starting my life over again from scratch. Selling myself unconvincingly in job interviews. Most of all, endlessly explaining to people - strangers and friends - why I came back; why I stayed in England and in my previous job so long; why I am single again. Coming back has been rougher than I imagined. I still don't feel settled but I imagine I won't for some time yet.
2. Do I miss London?
Overall, generally, despite everything, I have not regretted the decision to come home. Even when my parents and I have bickered over the most inconsequential things, even through the moments of extreme loneliness and "everyone's settled down except me" self-pity, even when I ended up on my brother's doorstep soaked by the flooding rains and streaked with tears; I never wanted to run back to London. I have had only a couple of flickers of missing the UK - literally seconds-long - but nothing more. Just the odd "oh, wasn't the Borough Market/Hampstead Heath/St Pauls in the early evening lovely?"
3. Has Melbourne changed?
Yes, Melbourne has changed. There are more people, more shops, more traffic, more restaurants. The cars are fancier, the houses bigger, everyone seems to have an iphone. People seem better off (except the poor sods who, like me, didn't buy before the boom). But the things that were always lovely about Melbourne, are still lovely. I am enjoying so much the thrill of rediscovering my home town after having been away for so long. The hidden laneways; the religious fervour of the coffee culture; the trams rattling and dinging around town in their own sweet time; descending to the cool calm of the Yarra.
It will get easier, I tell myself. I will feel more settled soon. I won't be on my own forever. The mantra of the lonely astronaut, separated forever by his experience.
Monday, April 18, 2011
In which I don't discuss any world events whatsoever, or indeed any events taking place outside of my flat.
Sorry I've been so slack on the blogging front. The world goes on spinning, Charlie Sheen goes on winning, my thighs are thinning. Helpfully, the stress of moving home combined with a new job have conspired to make me get back to my pre-London weight. Unhelpfully, that manifests itself in the following ways:
- Instead of shrinking, my butt just gets flatter. You ever see those plump girls with butts that stick straight out at the back like two basketballs? Yeah, I'm like a deflated version of that at the moment.
- My boobs have retreated back into non-existence.
- Shorts/jeans bought at the peak of my weight now fall off me. Literally.
However, I feel sleek and light and I can wear jeans on my bike without cutting off circulation to my thighs. Hopefully, once things settle down a bit my butt will come back. All is forgiven, butt! I'm sorry I ever cursed you and wished you gone from my life.
Despite the wobbliness of my job situation (and the lack of wobbliness in the rear department), I love my new flat. It's the one bit of stability in my life right now, and I'm clinging to it like a drowning polar bear to a chunk of iceberg. I love that I can watch the sunset behind the city from the POÄNG in my living room. I love re-organising my shamefully large DVD collection. I love puzzling over random pieces of furniture left out on the footpaths of Richmond, taking home what I can make use of (if I had have known about this new phenomenon of Melbournite's chucking out good furniture on a daily basis, I could have furnished my flat entirely from hard rubbish). I love the high pressure, hot-as-hell shower. I love that I can text my bro at random and meet up for coffee 5 minutes later. Good coffee, too.
Now, I just need to sort out my work situation. It looks like I will be going back to freelancing at the end of the month, and this time I need to sort out whether this is a viable long-term option for me, financially as well as emotionally. I'm a little worried about the possible isolation of living alone as well as working from home, but I'm sure there are lots of things/groups/events that I can sign up for to get me out of my lovely flat. I'm slowly rediscovering the fun stuff going on in Melbourne, which generally requires a little more research and forward planning than the stuff going on in London. Melbourne is revealing herself slowly to me, like a wary lover burnt by one too many heart-breaks.
I know the feeling, Melbourne. We are soul-mates, you and I.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
The Accidental Environmentalist
Dads, in my experience, seem to fall into one of two categories - the ones who rush out to buy the latest gadget as soon as it is available at the Apple store, bugger the expense; and the ones who will happily wait several years for their preferred brand of socks (Explorer) to go on sale (at $2 off).
My father falls squarely into the latter category.
As a teenager, my Dad's frugality was a sore point for myself and my brothers. We rolled our eyes at his home-made "security" system - silver-backed tape on the windows to fool the burgulars into thinking we actually had a security system - and derided him endlessly for taking his own snacks to the cinema (not even packaged snacks - apples and gladwrapped sultanas and almonds!). We begged him to buy some new clothes to replace his worn and mended overalls and paper-thin t-shirts. We refused to tell him how much a new pair of sneakers cost to avoid the outraged rant that would inevitably follow (as far as he was concerned, anyone who paid more than $10 for a pair of shoes was being ripped off).
It wasn't that he didn't have the money to spend. It wasn't that he was greedy and loved money; he wasn't miserly in that sense. It was just that he couldn't see the need for new things where old or existing things would suffice.
Naturally, we all reacted to this tight-arsedness in various ways. I became an avid bargain-hunter, who often lashed out on pretty, useless objects just for the joy of owning them. My middle bro became a model of generosity, a soft target for chuggers and friends who endlessly "forget" their wallets. And my youngest bro married a lovely girl who comes from a family where money is made to be enjoyed, who believe in buying the best quality that you can afford, and naturally he has swung over to that way of thinking.
My Dad never changed his position.
Over time, I've come to recognise the value in my Dad's frugality. I have even taken some lessons from him - I have no qualms about picking up items from a skip or hard rubbish collection, for instance. I will often make-do with whatever I have to hand, rather than replacing it with new. Buying anything over, say $100, causes me a little twinge of panic. Of course, I still buy stuff - but while my Dad taught me to wait for something to go on sale rather than pay full price (unless I really love it or it's shoes*), my WWOOFing experience taught me to question the impact of every purchase beyond the price tag.
Lately, I've come to see that my Dad has managed, unknowingly, to be what I like to call an Accidental Environmentalist. He's not motivated by some higher environmental or spiritual goal, he just doesn't like to spend money unnecessarily - and as a side-effect, without even trying, he's been saving the planet for fifty-nine years. His values are from a different era - the Great Depression, or post-War austerity, when everyone had to make-do and mend. A time before climate change and cheap long-haul flights; before shopping became our number 1 leisure activity; before the internet, even. Imagine that, kiddies.
At some point in the future, we are probably going to be forced to revert to a simpler, more localised way of living, because our current lifestyle is simply unsustainable. If this change occurs in his lifetime, my Dad will be in his element. People will be flocking to him for his words of wisdom; he will be a guru of frugal living.
"The best thing about them is they're already worn in!" (about dead man's pyjamas from the op-shop).
"I found this old hook at a construction site on the way home, it might come in handy" (twenty years later).
"You can eat the whole apple, you know. Are you going to eat that core?"
My Dad, the unwilling eco-warrior. We should all be more like him.
*Shoes. My weakness. I have large size 10-11 feet; there are hardly any shoes in my size and never on sale, so I will happily fork over full price for a decent pair that fit me. Or a gorgeous pair that don't quite fit me. Sorry, Dad. And planet. I'll try harder.
My father falls squarely into the latter category.
As a teenager, my Dad's frugality was a sore point for myself and my brothers. We rolled our eyes at his home-made "security" system - silver-backed tape on the windows to fool the burgulars into thinking we actually had a security system - and derided him endlessly for taking his own snacks to the cinema (not even packaged snacks - apples and gladwrapped sultanas and almonds!). We begged him to buy some new clothes to replace his worn and mended overalls and paper-thin t-shirts. We refused to tell him how much a new pair of sneakers cost to avoid the outraged rant that would inevitably follow (as far as he was concerned, anyone who paid more than $10 for a pair of shoes was being ripped off).
It wasn't that he didn't have the money to spend. It wasn't that he was greedy and loved money; he wasn't miserly in that sense. It was just that he couldn't see the need for new things where old or existing things would suffice.
Naturally, we all reacted to this tight-arsedness in various ways. I became an avid bargain-hunter, who often lashed out on pretty, useless objects just for the joy of owning them. My middle bro became a model of generosity, a soft target for chuggers and friends who endlessly "forget" their wallets. And my youngest bro married a lovely girl who comes from a family where money is made to be enjoyed, who believe in buying the best quality that you can afford, and naturally he has swung over to that way of thinking.
My Dad never changed his position.
Over time, I've come to recognise the value in my Dad's frugality. I have even taken some lessons from him - I have no qualms about picking up items from a skip or hard rubbish collection, for instance. I will often make-do with whatever I have to hand, rather than replacing it with new. Buying anything over, say $100, causes me a little twinge of panic. Of course, I still buy stuff - but while my Dad taught me to wait for something to go on sale rather than pay full price (unless I really love it or it's shoes*), my WWOOFing experience taught me to question the impact of every purchase beyond the price tag.
Lately, I've come to see that my Dad has managed, unknowingly, to be what I like to call an Accidental Environmentalist. He's not motivated by some higher environmental or spiritual goal, he just doesn't like to spend money unnecessarily - and as a side-effect, without even trying, he's been saving the planet for fifty-nine years. His values are from a different era - the Great Depression, or post-War austerity, when everyone had to make-do and mend. A time before climate change and cheap long-haul flights; before shopping became our number 1 leisure activity; before the internet, even. Imagine that, kiddies.
At some point in the future, we are probably going to be forced to revert to a simpler, more localised way of living, because our current lifestyle is simply unsustainable. If this change occurs in his lifetime, my Dad will be in his element. People will be flocking to him for his words of wisdom; he will be a guru of frugal living.
"The best thing about them is they're already worn in!" (about dead man's pyjamas from the op-shop).
"I found this old hook at a construction site on the way home, it might come in handy" (twenty years later).
"You can eat the whole apple, you know. Are you going to eat that core?"
My Dad, the unwilling eco-warrior. We should all be more like him.
*Shoes. My weakness. I have large size 10-11 feet; there are hardly any shoes in my size and never on sale, so I will happily fork over full price for a decent pair that fit me. Or a gorgeous pair that don't quite fit me. Sorry, Dad. And planet. I'll try harder.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Pickled onions for Pops
Whenever we went to the fish n' chip shop as kids, my Dad would invariably get a pickled onion in a brown paper bag to eat while we waited for our meal to be prepared. He would offer us a bite, and I would usually take a tentative nibble - it was so sour and so strong, I couldn't understand why he loved them so much, but I didn't want him to stop offering them to me.
Anyway, this Christmas I thought I'd make a jar of pickled onions for my Dad, so he has a ready store on hand. It's really ridiculously easy - although I haven't taste tested them yet, so here's hoping they're good!
1kg small pickling onions (I used normal brown onions as I couldn't find pickling ones)
white vinegar
salt
spices (I used a small handful of bay leaves and peppercorns)
sugar
preserving jar
Peel and trim the onions, being careful not to remove the whole root as this will keep the onion together. To make the brine, dissolve 100gm salt for every litre of water (you will need enough water to cover the onions in a bowl). Leave to soak overnight.
Drain and rinse the onions, pat dry with a cloth. Dissolve about 4tbs sugar in the vinegar by warming gently over the stove. Add the spices to your own taste and strength, then leave to cool completely. Sterilise the jar by washing it thoroughly in warm, soapy water then placing it into a slow oven for 15 minutes or so. Remove the jar and let it cool down enough that you can touch it, then place your onions in, pouring the vinegar over the top so that all the onions are covered.
Seal and store for up to 3 months (apparently, the longer you leave them, the better they are - ie. the more face-pulling will happen when your dad eats one).
Anyway, this Christmas I thought I'd make a jar of pickled onions for my Dad, so he has a ready store on hand. It's really ridiculously easy - although I haven't taste tested them yet, so here's hoping they're good!
1kg small pickling onions (I used normal brown onions as I couldn't find pickling ones)
white vinegar
salt
spices (I used a small handful of bay leaves and peppercorns)
sugar
preserving jar
Peel and trim the onions, being careful not to remove the whole root as this will keep the onion together. To make the brine, dissolve 100gm salt for every litre of water (you will need enough water to cover the onions in a bowl). Leave to soak overnight.
Drain and rinse the onions, pat dry with a cloth. Dissolve about 4tbs sugar in the vinegar by warming gently over the stove. Add the spices to your own taste and strength, then leave to cool completely. Sterilise the jar by washing it thoroughly in warm, soapy water then placing it into a slow oven for 15 minutes or so. Remove the jar and let it cool down enough that you can touch it, then place your onions in, pouring the vinegar over the top so that all the onions are covered.
Seal and store for up to 3 months (apparently, the longer you leave them, the better they are - ie. the more face-pulling will happen when your dad eats one).
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
The Naked Breakfast
Many years ago now, I did something most people might consider a teensy bit crazy; especially people who know me now as the-sensible-one-who-hardly-drinks. So crazy in fact that when I remember this incident I find myself marvelling at my youthful courage/foolhardiness.
So here it is: in the late Summer of 2001 I, along with thousands of other Melbournians, posed in the pre-dawn chill, nude, for a Spencer Tunick photo. Several Spencer Tunick photos, in fact. Butt naked in every one. Butt naked waiting between shots. Butt naked walking between locations. Naked butts, all over the place. Are you getting the picture?
Just in case you're not:
It was my zaniest, most alternative-lifestyle-embracing, lentil-and-veg-munching, green-voting, love-your-imperfections friend who sent me a link to a little article asking for willing volunteers. Shall we do it? she asked. I hesitated for a nanosecond and replied, yes. Think about the implications later, sign up now.
A good policy in life, generally. So I did.
Details were revealed to us in stages. Spencer has requested that all participants converge outside the Arts Centre at 4am. Please don't bring anything of value as you will have to leave it behind during the shoot. Please only come along if you intend to take part. My friend and I were beside ourselves leading up to the day - how many people will show up? Will there be any perverts hanging around the edges? Where will we leave the car keys?
As it turned out, none of these mattered. Approximately 4,000 people showed up, as well as a few keen members of the press and the odd bemused early morning jogger. Tunick briefed us all himself, via a loudspeaker and a ladder. There would be a countdown, then we would all strip and proceed to walk across Princess Street Bridge, whereupon he would give a signal at which we would all drop to the ground, like "puppets whose strings have been cut". 5,4,3,2,1. We start taking our clothes off a piece at a time, reluctantly at first, eyeing our neighbours furtively so as not to be the first fully exposed, until clothing starts dropping like flies and we are all out of our shells and all you can see is mostly pale flesh in varying degrees of pink. The atmosphere is incredibly peaceful and relaxed, and there is lots of pleased smiling shared between strangers. Stripped of our clothes, we are all one big mass of humanity. The barriers are down. We are all equally vulnerable. Big, small, young, old, male, female, fat, skinny, freckled, tattooed, scarred. All exposed as equal human beings; not so dissimilar after all.
We are swept along with the crowd walking towards the bridge, where we collapse at the signal and wait patiently for Tunick to take the shot. I remember thinking "I will always remember the feeling of lying here on the ashphalt". I always will. Then we all get up, brush our naked selves off, and head down to the banks of the Yarra for the next shot. By this time, the nakedness feels perfectly normal, and people are chatting away happily, joking and laughing as they make their way down to the muddy water's edge. The grass feels pleasantly soft after the road. The press take their photos, but there is a feeling that they are breaking an unwritten rule and eventually, one of them puts down his camera and strips so he can join in. He is welcomed with high fives and whoops of congratulation.
Eventually the photos are taken, the crowd heads back unhurriedly to their piles of clothes, and we all get dressed and go on with our weekend, buzzing from our collective experience.
Why did I do it?
I did it for Art, man. I did it to scandalise my future grandchildren. I did it for my lovely friend, whose utter fearlessness I envy still. I did it for my grandfather's delighted chuckle when I told him about it. I did it for Spencer. I did it for Melbourne, my lovely home town.
But most of all, I did it for me. As an act of art, as an experience, to prove that I could. For the memory.
So here it is: in the late Summer of 2001 I, along with thousands of other Melbournians, posed in the pre-dawn chill, nude, for a Spencer Tunick photo. Several Spencer Tunick photos, in fact. Butt naked in every one. Butt naked waiting between shots. Butt naked walking between locations. Naked butts, all over the place. Are you getting the picture?
Just in case you're not:
It was my zaniest, most alternative-lifestyle-embracing, lentil-and-veg-munching, green-voting, love-your-imperfections friend who sent me a link to a little article asking for willing volunteers. Shall we do it? she asked. I hesitated for a nanosecond and replied, yes. Think about the implications later, sign up now.
A good policy in life, generally. So I did.
Details were revealed to us in stages. Spencer has requested that all participants converge outside the Arts Centre at 4am. Please don't bring anything of value as you will have to leave it behind during the shoot. Please only come along if you intend to take part. My friend and I were beside ourselves leading up to the day - how many people will show up? Will there be any perverts hanging around the edges? Where will we leave the car keys?
As it turned out, none of these mattered. Approximately 4,000 people showed up, as well as a few keen members of the press and the odd bemused early morning jogger. Tunick briefed us all himself, via a loudspeaker and a ladder. There would be a countdown, then we would all strip and proceed to walk across Princess Street Bridge, whereupon he would give a signal at which we would all drop to the ground, like "puppets whose strings have been cut". 5,4,3,2,1. We start taking our clothes off a piece at a time, reluctantly at first, eyeing our neighbours furtively so as not to be the first fully exposed, until clothing starts dropping like flies and we are all out of our shells and all you can see is mostly pale flesh in varying degrees of pink. The atmosphere is incredibly peaceful and relaxed, and there is lots of pleased smiling shared between strangers. Stripped of our clothes, we are all one big mass of humanity. The barriers are down. We are all equally vulnerable. Big, small, young, old, male, female, fat, skinny, freckled, tattooed, scarred. All exposed as equal human beings; not so dissimilar after all.
We are swept along with the crowd walking towards the bridge, where we collapse at the signal and wait patiently for Tunick to take the shot. I remember thinking "I will always remember the feeling of lying here on the ashphalt". I always will. Then we all get up, brush our naked selves off, and head down to the banks of the Yarra for the next shot. By this time, the nakedness feels perfectly normal, and people are chatting away happily, joking and laughing as they make their way down to the muddy water's edge. The grass feels pleasantly soft after the road. The press take their photos, but there is a feeling that they are breaking an unwritten rule and eventually, one of them puts down his camera and strips so he can join in. He is welcomed with high fives and whoops of congratulation.
Eventually the photos are taken, the crowd heads back unhurriedly to their piles of clothes, and we all get dressed and go on with our weekend, buzzing from our collective experience.
Why did I do it?
I did it for Art, man. I did it to scandalise my future grandchildren. I did it for my lovely friend, whose utter fearlessness I envy still. I did it for my grandfather's delighted chuckle when I told him about it. I did it for Spencer. I did it for Melbourne, my lovely home town.
But most of all, I did it for me. As an act of art, as an experience, to prove that I could. For the memory.
Friday, December 25, 2009
I'm dreaming of some White Christmas...
Christmas is all about family, right? It goes without saying. But being back for my first family Christmas in 6 long years, it's the little things I've noticed that take me right back the Christmas days of my childhood. It's the punchbowl on the bench, the handmade stockings stuffed with Wizz Fizz and sherbies, the hilariously OTT Disney Christmas album playing on the record player, the crappy decorations we made in Primary School that mum still puts up, and White Christmas.
I'm so glad I decided to spend Christmas at home this year.
1 cup icing sugar
1 cup dessicated coconut
1 cup rice bubbles
1 cup skim milk powder
1 cup dried fruit (I used mostly sultanas with a few festive glaced cherries and candied orange peel pieces thrown in)
250gm copha (solidified coconut oil, hard to find outside of Australia)
100gm white chocolate to melt and drizzle on top, if you so desire (I don't)
Melt the copha in a saucepan on the stove. Mix all the other ingredients well and add melted copha to combine. When it is thoroughly mixed and there are no dry pockets, press it into a baking tray lined with foil/baking paper. Set in the fridge and cut into squares to serve. So simple, but so good - and it's very pretty piled in a bowl.
Happy Christms, everyone! I have spent the day in thongs (my brother's, hijacked), wearing an Australia flag t-shirt (a gift) while throwing prawns on the barbie (highly unusual). Yep, I'm reclaming my inner Aussie.
I'm so glad I decided to spend Christmas at home this year.
1 cup icing sugar
1 cup dessicated coconut
1 cup rice bubbles
1 cup skim milk powder
1 cup dried fruit (I used mostly sultanas with a few festive glaced cherries and candied orange peel pieces thrown in)
250gm copha (solidified coconut oil, hard to find outside of Australia)
100gm white chocolate to melt and drizzle on top, if you so desire (I don't)
Melt the copha in a saucepan on the stove. Mix all the other ingredients well and add melted copha to combine. When it is thoroughly mixed and there are no dry pockets, press it into a baking tray lined with foil/baking paper. Set in the fridge and cut into squares to serve. So simple, but so good - and it's very pretty piled in a bowl.
Happy Christms, everyone! I have spent the day in thongs (my brother's, hijacked), wearing an Australia flag t-shirt (a gift) while throwing prawns on the barbie (highly unusual). Yep, I'm reclaming my inner Aussie.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A tough act to follow
I saw my parents off at airport yesterday. Needless to say, tears were shed, bones were crushed with a years worth of hugs, and the airport authorities were brought in to tear me from my parents grasp. I only survived the long tube journey back from Heathrow by reading a free copy of the Telegraph, very intently, from front to back (including the obituaries). Do you think I can remember a damn article? Gordon Brown made a speech, that much I gather.
The thing that most people commented on after meeting my parents was how cute they are together, and how affectionate they are with each other still. My Dad has always doted on my Mum - something I always took for granted - and as much as she is sometimes exasperated by his quirks*, they have lived their lives like two peas in a pod and she would be lost without him.
I remember it dawning on me in my teens that other people's parents were different. They nagged each other, or lead virtually separate lives, or seemed to barely tolerate one another. It wasn't until I reached my twenties that I realised that what my parents have is actually quite rare. Sad as it seemed (and still seems) to me, only once in a blue, blue moon - as Luka Bloom so beautifully sings - do lovers find each other. It is easy to be fooled - what with all the films, songs and stories devoted to the subject - into thinking that true love is everybody's birthright, easy to achieve as reaching out and plucking a rose. Actually, true love is a rare and fragile bird, and as much a product of will as it is of chance, magic, chemistry or whatever you want to call that ephemeral spark between two people.
My parents have certainly had their share of rough patches, but underlying their marriage is an unshakeable devotion to and blind faith in their "togetherness". That kind of fierce, limpet-like commitment has seen them through 35 years, 3 kids, and the various crises and celebrations that occur in varying frequencies in everybody's lives.
I am lucky enough to have two generations of stable, devoted, loving marriages on which to base my expectations. As one person commented, that's a hard act to follow. It surely is, my friend.
* I don't want to get into too much detail here, but let me just say - my Dad is a little averse to spending money; and even the simplest plan (ie. a trip to the shops) must be confirmed in triplicate - with supporting notes, lists, timelines and maps - in order for him to feel comfortable.
The thing that most people commented on after meeting my parents was how cute they are together, and how affectionate they are with each other still. My Dad has always doted on my Mum - something I always took for granted - and as much as she is sometimes exasperated by his quirks*, they have lived their lives like two peas in a pod and she would be lost without him.
I remember it dawning on me in my teens that other people's parents were different. They nagged each other, or lead virtually separate lives, or seemed to barely tolerate one another. It wasn't until I reached my twenties that I realised that what my parents have is actually quite rare. Sad as it seemed (and still seems) to me, only once in a blue, blue moon - as Luka Bloom so beautifully sings - do lovers find each other. It is easy to be fooled - what with all the films, songs and stories devoted to the subject - into thinking that true love is everybody's birthright, easy to achieve as reaching out and plucking a rose. Actually, true love is a rare and fragile bird, and as much a product of will as it is of chance, magic, chemistry or whatever you want to call that ephemeral spark between two people.
My parents have certainly had their share of rough patches, but underlying their marriage is an unshakeable devotion to and blind faith in their "togetherness". That kind of fierce, limpet-like commitment has seen them through 35 years, 3 kids, and the various crises and celebrations that occur in varying frequencies in everybody's lives.
I am lucky enough to have two generations of stable, devoted, loving marriages on which to base my expectations. As one person commented, that's a hard act to follow. It surely is, my friend.
* I don't want to get into too much detail here, but let me just say - my Dad is a little averse to spending money; and even the simplest plan (ie. a trip to the shops) must be confirmed in triplicate - with supporting notes, lists, timelines and maps - in order for him to feel comfortable.
Friday, September 05, 2008
The parental unit come to visit
MY PARENTS ARE HERE! MY PARENTS ARE HERE!! Lord-a-me, I never thought I would see the day. My Swedish-bound bro and I have been fretting for their welfare ever since they told us they had decided they were coming over! And they had booked their flights already! And surely there was only one airport in Sweden, so they booked tickets to that one!
Oh boy. My parents have never travelled outside of Australia (apart from their honeymoon, which was to Norfolk Island, and I'm pretty sure that doesn't count). They still live in the same house they built after they got married, with the same charmingly red-necked neighbour next door. My Dad gets twitchy if he doesn't get at least one LARGE, STRONG, PIPING HOT mug of tea per hour in the day, and let's not talk about his attitude towards spending money unecessarily (or indeed, at all). I don't want to build up a picture that my parents are incredibly conservative here, because they are both intelligent people who are interested in the world around them, and my mum especially has become a lot more engaged in the world of texts and yoga classes and Japanese cuisine over the past decade, but I think it's fair to say that they are very modest, home loving people who love living in Australia, and have never seen the need to go anywhere else.
BUT NOW THEY'RE HERE! Telling me about the adventures they had in Rome! And how they danced to Waltzing Matilda in Tuscany! And got free cheesecake from a lovely Italian dude when they arrived late to their hotel in Florence! And how the snooty French woman told my Dad off for filling his water bottle with Evian from the breakfast table! (he doesn't trust the tap water in Europe - that would be a step too far).
I am so overwhelmed to see them both again, and so proud of them both for making it here, and so thrilled that they enjoyed Europe so much. They are both skinnier than I remember, and older. Also, it's great for the ego when your Dad tells you that you are better than the Colosseum and the Pantheon combined. Love you both, little rum and popsy, and so looking forward to making the most of having you here in London with me.
Oh boy. My parents have never travelled outside of Australia (apart from their honeymoon, which was to Norfolk Island, and I'm pretty sure that doesn't count). They still live in the same house they built after they got married, with the same charmingly red-necked neighbour next door. My Dad gets twitchy if he doesn't get at least one LARGE, STRONG, PIPING HOT mug of tea per hour in the day, and let's not talk about his attitude towards spending money unecessarily (or indeed, at all). I don't want to build up a picture that my parents are incredibly conservative here, because they are both intelligent people who are interested in the world around them, and my mum especially has become a lot more engaged in the world of texts and yoga classes and Japanese cuisine over the past decade, but I think it's fair to say that they are very modest, home loving people who love living in Australia, and have never seen the need to go anywhere else.
BUT NOW THEY'RE HERE! Telling me about the adventures they had in Rome! And how they danced to Waltzing Matilda in Tuscany! And got free cheesecake from a lovely Italian dude when they arrived late to their hotel in Florence! And how the snooty French woman told my Dad off for filling his water bottle with Evian from the breakfast table! (he doesn't trust the tap water in Europe - that would be a step too far).
I am so overwhelmed to see them both again, and so proud of them both for making it here, and so thrilled that they enjoyed Europe so much. They are both skinnier than I remember, and older. Also, it's great for the ego when your Dad tells you that you are better than the Colosseum and the Pantheon combined. Love you both, little rum and popsy, and so looking forward to making the most of having you here in London with me.
Friday, August 22, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Pepper Reynolds, 1993 - 2007
We took our family dog to the vet today to be put down. She was a tibetan spaniel and australian terrior cross, a sweet little dog with a rabbity-soft black and white coat and a brushy tail that curled up to her back. She had become very sick with cancer and was obviously losing the battle against the horrible lumps which had taken over her small body.
She had the sweetest puppy-face, right up until the end, with a petite black nose, folded over velvety black ears, and a little black bottom lip which looked like a shiny strip of licorice. Her "rocky road" belly was spotted pink, brown and white.
We used to joke that she was more like a cat than a dog - when you called her, she would come in her own time, and she was never terribly obedient - but in truth she hated cats. And joggers. And possums, which were her sworn enemies. She spent many long nights letting her outrage be heard as the possums cavorted out of reach in the trees and over the roof of our house.
Pepper was there when I spent hours out in the backyard researching, writing, and day-dreaming; my tears fell on her head when my heart was broken; she gave me comfort when I felt misunderstood and isolated from my family.
I still expect to hear her little nails as she trots across the decking out the back, and to see her expectant face at the window when she wants to come inside, breath from her little black nose frosting the glass.
A much loved member of the family, she will be dearly missed. If there is a heaven, she is there with Biff and Max from next door, and grandpa is sneaking her biscuits under the table.
She had the sweetest puppy-face, right up until the end, with a petite black nose, folded over velvety black ears, and a little black bottom lip which looked like a shiny strip of licorice. Her "rocky road" belly was spotted pink, brown and white.
We used to joke that she was more like a cat than a dog - when you called her, she would come in her own time, and she was never terribly obedient - but in truth she hated cats. And joggers. And possums, which were her sworn enemies. She spent many long nights letting her outrage be heard as the possums cavorted out of reach in the trees and over the roof of our house.
Pepper was there when I spent hours out in the backyard researching, writing, and day-dreaming; my tears fell on her head when my heart was broken; she gave me comfort when I felt misunderstood and isolated from my family.
I still expect to hear her little nails as she trots across the decking out the back, and to see her expectant face at the window when she wants to come inside, breath from her little black nose frosting the glass.
A much loved member of the family, she will be dearly missed. If there is a heaven, she is there with Biff and Max from next door, and grandpa is sneaking her biscuits under the table.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Bye bye bruv
I hugged my little bro for the last time (for a while) this morning. *sniff*. He is heading off to catch a plane bound for Sweden at 6pm tonight. It has been so, so nice to have him around. I figure it is the most amount of time we have spent together since we were little kids, amazingly. As teenagers, we crossed paths occassionally, exchanging nothing but a friendly punch on the arm in the hallway. It is so humbling to see him grown up into the sweet, loveable, growly-voiced bloke he is now. We are both trying to live good lives and be the decent people our parents brought us up to be.
He has been nothing but the easiest house-guest ever, washing up every night and tidying up after himself, offering his food-chopping services at every dinner. He raved about the meals we cooked him, and seemed perfectly happy to spend nights at home watching Peep Show on DVD, with the odd Aerobie outing.
Another bonus is witnessing the relationship between my boyfriend and my brother grow in front of my eyes. They hadn't spent much time together at all, so this visit has been a chance for my brother to scope out my long-term boyfriend and give him the family stamp of approval, and for my boyfriend to gain an honorary younger brother to whom he can pass on Mac-guru/martial arts-wisdom.
Now all I need is for my youngest brother and parents to get their butts over here. Or for my boyfriend to agree to move back to Melbourne with me. Or for someone to invent instantaneous travel, Star Trek style. Which would be my preferred option.
He has been nothing but the easiest house-guest ever, washing up every night and tidying up after himself, offering his food-chopping services at every dinner. He raved about the meals we cooked him, and seemed perfectly happy to spend nights at home watching Peep Show on DVD, with the odd Aerobie outing.
Another bonus is witnessing the relationship between my boyfriend and my brother grow in front of my eyes. They hadn't spent much time together at all, so this visit has been a chance for my brother to scope out my long-term boyfriend and give him the family stamp of approval, and for my boyfriend to gain an honorary younger brother to whom he can pass on Mac-guru/martial arts-wisdom.
Now all I need is for my youngest brother and parents to get their butts over here. Or for my boyfriend to agree to move back to Melbourne with me. Or for someone to invent instantaneous travel, Star Trek style. Which would be my preferred option.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Little bruv
My brother arrived on friday, coated with sweat after carrying his enormous backpack all the way from the tube station (it's a good 10 minute walk) - his big, familiar gap-toothed grin and eternally-burnt nose beaming from the doorway.
Before he came, he told me not to change any plans, just to do whatever we were going to do anyway, and not to worry about him. I guess he didn't realise that, for me, being away from my family for so long means that having one of them over here with me is a big fat deal. I am so happy to have him here; just hanging out with me and my boyfriend, occasionally play-wrestling me to the ground, happily eating whatever we put in front of him. It almost feels like a holiday.
Yesterday, we rang home and spoke to mum and dad. They were thrilled to hear from us, and to know that we are both together and enjoying each other's company for a little while. It has really made me think about how comfortable and happy I am in the company of my immediate family, and how much I appreciate them (and miss them terribly). He is spending a year in Sweden with his girlfriend, after which - who knows? I can't believe we are both bobbing in the same easily-capsized boat, the HMS "International Relationship". Uncharted territory for us both.
It is good to have him, for now.
Before he came, he told me not to change any plans, just to do whatever we were going to do anyway, and not to worry about him. I guess he didn't realise that, for me, being away from my family for so long means that having one of them over here with me is a big fat deal. I am so happy to have him here; just hanging out with me and my boyfriend, occasionally play-wrestling me to the ground, happily eating whatever we put in front of him. It almost feels like a holiday.
Yesterday, we rang home and spoke to mum and dad. They were thrilled to hear from us, and to know that we are both together and enjoying each other's company for a little while. It has really made me think about how comfortable and happy I am in the company of my immediate family, and how much I appreciate them (and miss them terribly). He is spending a year in Sweden with his girlfriend, after which - who knows? I can't believe we are both bobbing in the same easily-capsized boat, the HMS "International Relationship". Uncharted territory for us both.
It is good to have him, for now.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Good news, sad songs
My brother just called me from Kashmir, India. Politically-volatile-but-kind-of-exotic-sounding Kashmir. That boy leads a way more exciting life than I do ("What are you up to, sis?" "Oh, well I was thinking about heading to the library when it stops raining").
I can't wait to hear all about his travels around sweltering India, and he just made my day by asking to stay for a week when he hits London before heading to Sweden. Yay! I have really been missing my family lately, so I am looking forward to seeing a sibling in the flesh (more huggable) and catching up. However, my bro is notoriously unreliable so I am not going to invest in an airbed/australian flags to hang out the window/jars of vegemite or anything until he is actually at my front door.
* * * *
If, as I do, you like your music to be more on the so-sad-it-breaks-your-heart side rather than bouncy-jumpy-up-and-down side, you might appreciate this list. Although some of these songs are way too upbeat in my opinion. Behold my own list of truly depressing ditties:
Beth Orton - Wish I Never Saw the Sunshine (I cried my eyes out to this, over and over, after a major breakup)
Neil Young - Only Love Can Break Your Heart
Eric Clapton - Tears in Heaven
Juliana Hatfield - Table for One
Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah
Luka Bloom - Innocence
Aretha Franklin - Angel
Gary Jules - Mad World
Amy Winehouse - Love is a Losing Game (in fact, most of the defiantly brilliant Back to Black)
Joni Mitchell - Little Green
Lior - Grey Ocean
Liz Phair - Somebody's Miracle
Martha Wainwright - TV Show
Pearl Jam - Last Kiss
Ray LaMontagne - All the Wild Horses
Nina Simone - Ne Me Quitte Pas
I can't wait to hear all about his travels around sweltering India, and he just made my day by asking to stay for a week when he hits London before heading to Sweden. Yay! I have really been missing my family lately, so I am looking forward to seeing a sibling in the flesh (more huggable) and catching up. However, my bro is notoriously unreliable so I am not going to invest in an airbed/australian flags to hang out the window/jars of vegemite or anything until he is actually at my front door.
* * * *
If, as I do, you like your music to be more on the so-sad-it-breaks-your-heart side rather than bouncy-jumpy-up-and-down side, you might appreciate this list. Although some of these songs are way too upbeat in my opinion. Behold my own list of truly depressing ditties:
Beth Orton - Wish I Never Saw the Sunshine (I cried my eyes out to this, over and over, after a major breakup)
Neil Young - Only Love Can Break Your Heart
Eric Clapton - Tears in Heaven
Juliana Hatfield - Table for One
Jeff Buckley - Hallelujah
Luka Bloom - Innocence
Aretha Franklin - Angel
Gary Jules - Mad World
Amy Winehouse - Love is a Losing Game (in fact, most of the defiantly brilliant Back to Black)
Joni Mitchell - Little Green
Lior - Grey Ocean
Liz Phair - Somebody's Miracle
Martha Wainwright - TV Show
Pearl Jam - Last Kiss
Ray LaMontagne - All the Wild Horses
Nina Simone - Ne Me Quitte Pas
Monday, April 09, 2007
Hairy tales
Can I just make one thing clear to the reader: I detest getting my hair cut. I can think of nowt worse than having a weirdly-dressed stranger take my bag, wrap me in a tablecloth and guide me to a chair where I will have to sit still for a good half hour, with nothing to look at but my own miserable reflection.
I love having the new hair cut. I love walking out of the salon feeling incredibly self-consious, with luscious bouncy locks which will be history by afternoon. It's just the cutting of the hair which I hate, and the accompanying pre-cut and post-cut fuss. I hate the pre-wash in the uncomfortable neck-contour sink (whose neck? An ostrich?). I hate the nuclear-voltage blowdry where they deafen you whilst simultaneously scorching your scalp to a glowing ember.
Some hair-related things I have learned the hard way:
1. Don't go to a discount hair salon which is aimed at blokes (G.I. Joe's in Richmond, I am looking at you). I cried all over my colleague when I came back one lunchtime with a small boy's haircut (short on top, shaved at the back). It might have been cute on Mia Farrow, but I looked like a frickin' idiot.
2. Having said that, hair grows - it is never going to look that great for long, or that awful for long.
3. You don't necessarily have to talk to the hairdresser while they work. It is such a relief to come across a naturally quiet one who doesn't want to chat endlessly about your holiday plans, in between regaling you with vivid tracts from her hectic social life.
4. It is worth putting on some lipstick and changing out of your tracky-daks. If you show up at the salon looking like a bogan, they will give you a bogan haircut.
5. Don't get stuck in a hair rut. I have had all lengths from lesbian crop to (the current) born-again hippy, and all colours from brown (bad) to fiery red (strangely good), to rediscovering my mousey roots (current). It takes time to work out what suits you best - and your hairdresser must surely be sick of cutting her millionth "long layers, please" for the day.
6. It's just hair. You shouldn't need to spend upwards of £40 for a haircut. You wouldn't spend £20 getting your nails cut, would you? Well, maybe you would. But I sure as hell wouldn't. That money could be going to more useful things, like a new CD or more chocolate.
* * *
It was OK in Australia - my littlest brother's girlfriend happens to be a fantastic hairstylist. Brilliant! Discount super-smart haircuts for life. Fingers crossed they get married and we have a permanent hair-fixer in the family.
If only my middle brother was going out with a music-label guru. Or a master chocolatier. I'm not fussy; either will do.
I love having the new hair cut. I love walking out of the salon feeling incredibly self-consious, with luscious bouncy locks which will be history by afternoon. It's just the cutting of the hair which I hate, and the accompanying pre-cut and post-cut fuss. I hate the pre-wash in the uncomfortable neck-contour sink (whose neck? An ostrich?). I hate the nuclear-voltage blowdry where they deafen you whilst simultaneously scorching your scalp to a glowing ember.
Some hair-related things I have learned the hard way:
1. Don't go to a discount hair salon which is aimed at blokes (G.I. Joe's in Richmond, I am looking at you). I cried all over my colleague when I came back one lunchtime with a small boy's haircut (short on top, shaved at the back). It might have been cute on Mia Farrow, but I looked like a frickin' idiot.
2. Having said that, hair grows - it is never going to look that great for long, or that awful for long.
3. You don't necessarily have to talk to the hairdresser while they work. It is such a relief to come across a naturally quiet one who doesn't want to chat endlessly about your holiday plans, in between regaling you with vivid tracts from her hectic social life.
4. It is worth putting on some lipstick and changing out of your tracky-daks. If you show up at the salon looking like a bogan, they will give you a bogan haircut.
5. Don't get stuck in a hair rut. I have had all lengths from lesbian crop to (the current) born-again hippy, and all colours from brown (bad) to fiery red (strangely good), to rediscovering my mousey roots (current). It takes time to work out what suits you best - and your hairdresser must surely be sick of cutting her millionth "long layers, please" for the day.
6. It's just hair. You shouldn't need to spend upwards of £40 for a haircut. You wouldn't spend £20 getting your nails cut, would you? Well, maybe you would. But I sure as hell wouldn't. That money could be going to more useful things, like a new CD or more chocolate.
* * *
It was OK in Australia - my littlest brother's girlfriend happens to be a fantastic hairstylist. Brilliant! Discount super-smart haircuts for life. Fingers crossed they get married and we have a permanent hair-fixer in the family.
If only my middle brother was going out with a music-label guru. Or a master chocolatier. I'm not fussy; either will do.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Melbourne/London
It's funny, the longer I stay over here, the scarier and more overwhelming the prospect of "going home" becomes. I don't know how long I would have to be over here before it felt more like home than...home, but I am guessing maybe never. Home is where your family are. And lovely though he is, my boyfriend doesn't quite qualify as family yet.
I have been over here for four years now - one more year and I qualify for residency. Scary and confusing: although I can see the benefits of becoming a resident (a UK passport would be SO sweet), it seems like a huge commitment to a country I never planned to live in for this long.
The truth is, I had hoped to return home mid-this year. Unfortunately, my boyfriend's father passed away unexpectedly last November, so our long-term plans have been shelved for the moment. I really don't know when I will be going home, which is kind of sad.
Life here still holds that dream-like quality which any expatriate will know about, where it feels like your real life has been suspended, and you are floating in space (like Ripley in Alien). Even though your body still functions - you go to work, cook meals and go to bed just like always - part of your heart remains in limbo, waiting for the return home and to your "real" life. I wish I could commit wholeheartedly to a new life here, which would make everything that much simpler, but I think I will always feel that pull towards home, to my parents and brothers.
Then again, I think it is part of my make up to feel a constant, underlying sense of yearning for some indefinable thing or state.
Maybe I have a restless soul. Or maybe this is just part of the human condition, part of what drives us to live, work, form relationships, procreate. Would I feel this way if I grew up in a remote village with no education or knowledge of the wider world? Who knows. In the meantime, in a less cerebral world, Spring has woken, ever so gently, and the evening light is taking on the most delicate soft pink hue. It is easy to feel a bit more hopeful when your walk home is accompanied by nodding daffodils and snowdrops, lit by this heavenly glow.
I have been over here for four years now - one more year and I qualify for residency. Scary and confusing: although I can see the benefits of becoming a resident (a UK passport would be SO sweet), it seems like a huge commitment to a country I never planned to live in for this long.
The truth is, I had hoped to return home mid-this year. Unfortunately, my boyfriend's father passed away unexpectedly last November, so our long-term plans have been shelved for the moment. I really don't know when I will be going home, which is kind of sad.
Life here still holds that dream-like quality which any expatriate will know about, where it feels like your real life has been suspended, and you are floating in space (like Ripley in Alien). Even though your body still functions - you go to work, cook meals and go to bed just like always - part of your heart remains in limbo, waiting for the return home and to your "real" life. I wish I could commit wholeheartedly to a new life here, which would make everything that much simpler, but I think I will always feel that pull towards home, to my parents and brothers.
Then again, I think it is part of my make up to feel a constant, underlying sense of yearning for some indefinable thing or state.
Maybe I have a restless soul. Or maybe this is just part of the human condition, part of what drives us to live, work, form relationships, procreate. Would I feel this way if I grew up in a remote village with no education or knowledge of the wider world? Who knows. In the meantime, in a less cerebral world, Spring has woken, ever so gently, and the evening light is taking on the most delicate soft pink hue. It is easy to feel a bit more hopeful when your walk home is accompanied by nodding daffodils and snowdrops, lit by this heavenly glow.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Home is...
I fly out of Melbourne later today. I hate this part of the trip. Last time I had to say goodbye and fly back to London, I was still crying when we touched down in Heathrow. By that stage, my eyes were so swollen and red and dry that I looked like one of those goldfish with the bulging eyes, but all bloodshot. People had stopped looking at me with pity and started covering their children's eyes and giving me horrified stares.
I have had such a lovely time catching up with friends and especially spending time hanging out with my family - I really am conflicted about going "home" to London. I think it is time to convince the Boyfriend to come out with me, pioneer-style, and start a new life in Melbourne. It is a great town, a little provincial to European eyes perhaps, but with pockets of interest if you take the time to search them out, and a fantastic live music scene. I miss the gum trees and the warbling of magpies. I miss the crazy up-and-down weather. Most of all I miss my family.
I have had such a lovely time catching up with friends and especially spending time hanging out with my family - I really am conflicted about going "home" to London. I think it is time to convince the Boyfriend to come out with me, pioneer-style, and start a new life in Melbourne. It is a great town, a little provincial to European eyes perhaps, but with pockets of interest if you take the time to search them out, and a fantastic live music scene. I miss the gum trees and the warbling of magpies. I miss the crazy up-and-down weather. Most of all I miss my family.
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