I bought a Shirley yesterday.
Yes, a Shirley.
What is a Shirley you may ask?
Well, Shirley is a Global Positioning System - or a satellite navigator as it is known to some.
Yes, I've named my SatNav. I think it suits her. Annoying voice, always trying to tell you where to go - most likely right all of the time except for when you really are in a hurry then she leads you down the garden path. Gets hysterical when you make a wrong move whether you know it or not, then she really lets you have it. Something that you will be talking to saying, "Yes, Shirley. What every you say, Shirley." Behind her back, you're more than likely saying ,"Eff off Shirley, there's no sodding way I'm taking Punt Road - or Chapel Street - go to hell!"
I think Shirley is the perfect name for a GPS. Lachlan's mother's name is Shirley. I think it's apt. I could have named it after the Grounded Dutchman's mother, who has many of the same traits of Lachlan's mother, but her name is long and Dutch and it can't be served up with the same amount of vitriol. (and she's a nice lady too - we couldn't do that to her). The Grounded Dutchman's mum would also never be seen with a pint of bitter and a fag in her mouth at ten a.m. either.
Naming things is something I love to do. As I'm probably never going to be a mother, I won't have the opportunity to mess up my children with my choice of name.
So I tend to name inanimate objects instead.
As some of you are aware, I have a car named Andrew at the moment. I work with an Andrew at the moment. I also have a cousin who is a copper named Andrew and another cousin who lives in Tasmania named Andrew. My Andrew was not named after a middle suburbs politician who never shuts up, nor an undercover member of the drug squad, nor a wearhouseman from Bagdad, Tasmania.
Andrew was named after a long gone ex's wobbly bits. Small but gets you where you need to go. I think the name suits a 2000 white, five door Toyota Echo really well.
I've named all my previous cars as well. I've had Edna the EJ Holden (Large, lumpy, good at growing things in the boot), Phoebe the Fiesta - named by the car's former owner who is now a well respected doctor - so it's not just me - it might be an Adelaide thing.
And my car before Andrew was Colin. Colin was a 0.65 litre Daihatsu Centro. Colin had small man syndrome. I would have called him Allan, but Allans make the tea - and this car was as weak as maiden's piss - useless. So Colin it was. Strange thing is, the last two Colins I've met have been a drill seargent in the navy and a cauliflower earred Scotsman, both standing around six foot three and built like a brick dunny. Not small men at all.
It's funny how names can stick with you. Talking to Emm today after pump class she asked if I had thought of a name for my proposed new car, hopefully a zippy little Madza 2. "Dennis," I said. Emm then asked why I seemed to name my cars after middle aged accountants with comb overs.
Hmm, interesting point. Rather than Dennis, it could be a Malcolm or a Trevor or a Geoffrey or a Raymond. If I was really scraping the bottom of the barrel I could go down the Donald or Reginald route - then again, my grandfather was a Reg - best leave that for a stroppy ginger cat I may get in the future.
I love names, I really do. I was thrilled to find out that Reindert is a brand of fabric softener in the Netherlands. Why would his mother do that to him? That's just choice, especially as his brothers have two of the commonest names in the Netherlands. Why divert from the norms?
Meeting the Grounded Dutchman was peppered with angst as he has the same name as my long dead father. It took quite a while to get over the associations. I also have many "uncles" with the same name. Men with the Grounded Dutchman's christian name tend to be cricket loving, beer swilling reprobates with a desire for fame. They're also now all aged in their seventies.
I've been out with Marcs, who always seem to have mother issues, Simon's who inevitably love their computers more than me and Matthews, who would be near perfect if only they would wash their hair occasionally.
Women's names are just as fraught. I've never met a Natalie who wasn't as fake as a three dollar note, a Rebecca who wasn't on antidepressants or a Tammy who didn't have a boyfriend who was into CB radio and was knocked up by the age of sixteen.
I also have clusters of friends who seem to have names and similar traits. Of my three friends called Verity, all have had marital problems but seem to be able to work miracles in the business world. The Carolyn's I know all tend to whine a lot but their hearts are in the right place. Rosemary's are good in a crisis. Petronella's will undoubtedly smell of patchouli and think they are psychic.
I remember when a friend said she was going to call her son Francis. All I couldn't think was, hmmm, sits at the back of the class, picks his spots and eats glue. Just like the Mileses and Rodneys of this world.
Really, I shouldn't make fun of names. I'm Pandora. Pandy to my family. Pand to most. I get called Alison regularly - I'm told I look like an Alison.
I hated my name growing up. I've grown into it now. Knowing that when Pandora's box was opened and all of the evils of the world flew out all that was left was hope and opportunity. I rather like that.
But I'm also sure there are number of people out there who associate the name with Adrian Mole's first love and bogan troll bracelets.
Each to his own.
Pand (mother of Andrew the echo and Shirley the GPS)
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Selling Oneself
My days start a little earlier now. I rise on waking, make a cup of English Breakfast tea with a splash of skinny milk. I shower and wash my hair, after which, there is the normal cleanse, tone and moisturise routine of the facial skin and roll on some organic deodorant. I prefer the organic, non-chemical stuff, which works far better than anti-perspirant - it doesn't stain your clothes and it doesn't stop you sweating - it just stops you smelling. Humans are meant to sweat under their arms after all.
After these ablutions, I dress. With care. New tailored trousers, a clean white, trim fitting t-shirt, over which goes a long tailored black jacket.
In between imbibing my normal breakfast protein shake, fish oil capule and multi vitamin tablet, I consider my face. I'm really blessed. Spending my twenties in England, good genes and being pleasantly plump, I have few wrinkles for my age. Other than a couple of light circles under my eyes, my skin is clear. I now proceed to cover it in beige powder - again, mineral based to allow my skin to breath underneath. Then there's a bit of blusher applied to my cheekbones, a light dusting of shimmering eyeshadow, brown eyeliner (which a queeny make up artist told me years back to use rather than black - it's far less severe for a woman of my age) and a bit of brown/black mascara. I dry my hair straight - a seemingly pointless exercise in this humid weather, but it has to be done. It will be an unruly, frizzy mess by midday.
I am in interview mode. I have two pimps to meet today. I have to give them my A-game.
Before heading to the tram, I clean my teeth, careful to use mouthwash afterward. Just before I leave the flat, I put on my shoes. My running shoes. These are what I wear to work. A pair of one inch kitten heels sit in a bag next to my handbag. I will slip these on just before I meet the pimps. I may as well be comfortable until then. I have a pair of black work flats under my desk which will don my feet at Tin Can, String and Whistle. You could turn up in your pyjamas there and nobody would notice. Fridays I normally wear jeans - like everybody else. Unless you're meeting clients there's little point turning up in a suit.
Just after twelve, I slip out of the office for my scheduled meeting with pimp number one. Her name is Amber. Stripper name. Bet she's blonde, dressed fashionalbly, very thin and with a high pitched voice.
I'm used to dealing with the pimps - or recruitment consultants as they're known to the outside world. People who will sell your skills on to the highest bidder. People who will happily oversell your worth for their own gain.
Yes, I'm cynical, but after the last time I went contracting, going from appointment to appointment, shaking wet fish hands, having my christian name said at least once every sentence, you get to know the drill.
The good pimps are the ones you can have a laugh with. The good ones are genuinely interested in finding you a job that makes you happy. These are the ones who look you straight in the eye, tell you how it is and do call you through the year to see what you're up to. Second pimp of the day is one of these good ones. But more on him later.
Stupidly, I change into the kitten heels before making my way to the pimp's lair, a kilometre away from the office. In the wet and with the paving stones I slipped repeatedly and my right knee started to ache. Never to mind, a bag of peas and some lectric soda later would help to sort it.
Amber was on time. Indeed, she had the wet fish handshake, the simpering smile, the speech impediment that made her use my name in every sentence, and yes, she was slim, blonde and dressed very fashionably. We sit in a barely furnished room, stripped of natural light.
She then starts the questions.
What did I want to do? Had I looked at the company website? Was I able to work in Geelong? What were my strengths? What were my greatest acheivements? When was I available for work... all the normal questions from somebody who I would say has summed me up as one above pond scum in a moment after our intitial meeting. Of course, you have to put on your game face, answer with the same enthusiasm required of anybody else selling themselves.
Of course I will bend over and play dead as you wish.
Actually, it's not quite like that. I answer honestly. No, I'm not prepared to work full time in Geelong - a week here and there, sure. No, I don't want to work a ten hour day - I work to live, not the other way around. Yes, I like variety. I'm better with people than machines. If I can google it, I can learn it. No, I don't have an MBA or a business degree - I've learned business the hard way, from the back offices and though pushing paper and watching closely. It's got me a long way.
On leaving I offered her my hand. She didn't appear happy to take it.
Pimp number two is a much better experience. Later in the afternoon I make my way down Collins Street once again. Pimp number two is named Tony.
Tony and I have talked regularly over the last three years. I met him just before I got the role with Tin Can, String and Whistle. He's somebody I could see as a drinking buddy or mate. A man with a firm handshake and a genuine smile. He remembers from previous conversations that I run, read tarot and write. He has an idea of my skills. He likes that as somebody in the testing field that there is a trace of personality in me. We have a chat. He tells me that it's probably going to be mid next month before more opportunities come in. I tell him I'm aware of this, but I may as well get the leg work in now. He laughs at my plastic bag containing my trainers. He asks if I changed them in the lobby for the kitten heels. I admit to this. I have to give him my A-game after all. Good attitude, he says.
After bidding Tony farewell, I make my way home, tired, knee aching, rather desiring a beer.
Selling yourself is hard. It's exhausting. You know who you are and what you can do, but you have to go out and wager this into the market. When you're not a salesman, this can be hard on the psyche. You are dressed in clothes you're not used to wearing, uncomfortable shoes, there is a mask of makeup on your face. Your hair, normally thrown up in ponytail or given a cursory brush once a day is groomed within an inch of it's life. All of this is tiring in itself - just more stuff to consider.
I work in IT - jeans or business casual are normal fare unless you're meeting clients - half the time you're scratching around under desks or playing with cables anyway. Makeup isn't insisted upon - geeks don't care what you look like. Sensible shoes are the norm. Code doesn't ask you to roll over and jump through hoops - it just needs to work effiienctly and to spec.
This is why this is all so alien. I do feel like a prostitute. I also know that when I get the new, job, whatever that may be, within a fortnight I will be stripped of the mask of makeup, back in my comfortable business casual clothes and wearing flats around the office. Such is the game.
On arriving home, there is a mad dash to the bathroom where a wet flannel removes the bulk of the makeup. The office wear is thrown in the washing machine and a bag of frozen peas is strapped to my throbbing right knee.
Once again, I know exactly who I am and what I'm about.
It's such a pity that finding work is such a performance.
After these ablutions, I dress. With care. New tailored trousers, a clean white, trim fitting t-shirt, over which goes a long tailored black jacket.
In between imbibing my normal breakfast protein shake, fish oil capule and multi vitamin tablet, I consider my face. I'm really blessed. Spending my twenties in England, good genes and being pleasantly plump, I have few wrinkles for my age. Other than a couple of light circles under my eyes, my skin is clear. I now proceed to cover it in beige powder - again, mineral based to allow my skin to breath underneath. Then there's a bit of blusher applied to my cheekbones, a light dusting of shimmering eyeshadow, brown eyeliner (which a queeny make up artist told me years back to use rather than black - it's far less severe for a woman of my age) and a bit of brown/black mascara. I dry my hair straight - a seemingly pointless exercise in this humid weather, but it has to be done. It will be an unruly, frizzy mess by midday.
I am in interview mode. I have two pimps to meet today. I have to give them my A-game.
Before heading to the tram, I clean my teeth, careful to use mouthwash afterward. Just before I leave the flat, I put on my shoes. My running shoes. These are what I wear to work. A pair of one inch kitten heels sit in a bag next to my handbag. I will slip these on just before I meet the pimps. I may as well be comfortable until then. I have a pair of black work flats under my desk which will don my feet at Tin Can, String and Whistle. You could turn up in your pyjamas there and nobody would notice. Fridays I normally wear jeans - like everybody else. Unless you're meeting clients there's little point turning up in a suit.
Just after twelve, I slip out of the office for my scheduled meeting with pimp number one. Her name is Amber. Stripper name. Bet she's blonde, dressed fashionalbly, very thin and with a high pitched voice.
I'm used to dealing with the pimps - or recruitment consultants as they're known to the outside world. People who will sell your skills on to the highest bidder. People who will happily oversell your worth for their own gain.
Yes, I'm cynical, but after the last time I went contracting, going from appointment to appointment, shaking wet fish hands, having my christian name said at least once every sentence, you get to know the drill.
The good pimps are the ones you can have a laugh with. The good ones are genuinely interested in finding you a job that makes you happy. These are the ones who look you straight in the eye, tell you how it is and do call you through the year to see what you're up to. Second pimp of the day is one of these good ones. But more on him later.
Stupidly, I change into the kitten heels before making my way to the pimp's lair, a kilometre away from the office. In the wet and with the paving stones I slipped repeatedly and my right knee started to ache. Never to mind, a bag of peas and some lectric soda later would help to sort it.
Amber was on time. Indeed, she had the wet fish handshake, the simpering smile, the speech impediment that made her use my name in every sentence, and yes, she was slim, blonde and dressed very fashionably. We sit in a barely furnished room, stripped of natural light.
She then starts the questions.
What did I want to do? Had I looked at the company website? Was I able to work in Geelong? What were my strengths? What were my greatest acheivements? When was I available for work... all the normal questions from somebody who I would say has summed me up as one above pond scum in a moment after our intitial meeting. Of course, you have to put on your game face, answer with the same enthusiasm required of anybody else selling themselves.
Of course I will bend over and play dead as you wish.
Actually, it's not quite like that. I answer honestly. No, I'm not prepared to work full time in Geelong - a week here and there, sure. No, I don't want to work a ten hour day - I work to live, not the other way around. Yes, I like variety. I'm better with people than machines. If I can google it, I can learn it. No, I don't have an MBA or a business degree - I've learned business the hard way, from the back offices and though pushing paper and watching closely. It's got me a long way.
On leaving I offered her my hand. She didn't appear happy to take it.
Pimp number two is a much better experience. Later in the afternoon I make my way down Collins Street once again. Pimp number two is named Tony.
Tony and I have talked regularly over the last three years. I met him just before I got the role with Tin Can, String and Whistle. He's somebody I could see as a drinking buddy or mate. A man with a firm handshake and a genuine smile. He remembers from previous conversations that I run, read tarot and write. He has an idea of my skills. He likes that as somebody in the testing field that there is a trace of personality in me. We have a chat. He tells me that it's probably going to be mid next month before more opportunities come in. I tell him I'm aware of this, but I may as well get the leg work in now. He laughs at my plastic bag containing my trainers. He asks if I changed them in the lobby for the kitten heels. I admit to this. I have to give him my A-game after all. Good attitude, he says.
After bidding Tony farewell, I make my way home, tired, knee aching, rather desiring a beer.
Selling yourself is hard. It's exhausting. You know who you are and what you can do, but you have to go out and wager this into the market. When you're not a salesman, this can be hard on the psyche. You are dressed in clothes you're not used to wearing, uncomfortable shoes, there is a mask of makeup on your face. Your hair, normally thrown up in ponytail or given a cursory brush once a day is groomed within an inch of it's life. All of this is tiring in itself - just more stuff to consider.
I work in IT - jeans or business casual are normal fare unless you're meeting clients - half the time you're scratching around under desks or playing with cables anyway. Makeup isn't insisted upon - geeks don't care what you look like. Sensible shoes are the norm. Code doesn't ask you to roll over and jump through hoops - it just needs to work effiienctly and to spec.
This is why this is all so alien. I do feel like a prostitute. I also know that when I get the new, job, whatever that may be, within a fortnight I will be stripped of the mask of makeup, back in my comfortable business casual clothes and wearing flats around the office. Such is the game.
On arriving home, there is a mad dash to the bathroom where a wet flannel removes the bulk of the makeup. The office wear is thrown in the washing machine and a bag of frozen peas is strapped to my throbbing right knee.
Once again, I know exactly who I am and what I'm about.
It's such a pity that finding work is such a performance.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
The Importance of Being Positive
The most important lesson I have learned in the last ten years, other than beer and Baileys mixed in the same glass should never be imbibed, is the absolute power of being positive.
By rights, me, Pandora Behr, probably should be a negative nancy. I have a session booked with the HR department of Tin Can, String and Whistle tomorrow where I know that they are going to tell me that my position is redundant and that my last day at work is going to be the 22nd of December. I'm overweight. I'm not overly good looking. I'm 42 years old. I don't have a significant other and never have. I only have an ordinary Arts Degree. My knee is playing me up at the moment. I have a personal trainer named Pinochet who makes me ache on a weekly basis. I take in people's cats when when they go on holiday - and I like it as it gives me something to talk to while I'm at home.
Rather sad existence, eh?
My attitude to all this is "F*ck 'em. Life is going to be amazing. Just you watch."
There's a rather wretched book out there called, "The Secret." Many would have heard of it - it's a new age classic allegedly teaching people how to get rich.
The central message of the book is that like attracts like - one of the general laws of physics. Okay, when I heard this statement a few years ago, at the mention of physics, I turned off immediately. See, I'm no good at physics. Just as I'm no good at running, computers, losing weight and getting well paid fullfiling work. Hmm.
Okay, like attracts like. Let's see how this works.
Okay, so one of the things that came out is surround yourself with positive people, some of it will rub off. And you think, yeah, alright, maybe.
Well, I've taken this on as my mantra.
There's been some fairly big occurences happen to me over the last few days. On the grand scale of things they may appear small but they've rocked my world enough to make me feel secure, engaged and hopeful.
First up, a friend asked for a bit of help. She's not in a good way at all - probably as low as a person can go without doing something stupid. She explained her situation, that she needed somebody round on the weekend to keep and eye on her as she was in a bad way. I said I'd be there. It's not that she's part of my inner sanctum, far from it, but I know how dreadful it is when you feel you have nobody to turn to when things truly turn to shit. Being there for her was a given - I'd never want anybody to feel like that - even if it's just being on the end of the phone - she knew somebody was there.
Knowing that the situation could have repercussions on me, I made some plans for the Sunday. A visit out to Blarney to cuddle the babies and Maow Maow. Arrange for Grounded Dutchman to come and receive his birthday reflexology treatment. Things I like doing that make me happy. Positive things to take away any residual angst from the other friend.
It worked - all is on the level. Chance and Lance (Blarney's babies) and the Maow Maow (Blarney's cat) got cuddled within an inch of their lives and Aunty Pandora felt restored. Grounded Dutchman left with his size twelve clodhoppers all shiny and new and with a big relaxed smile on his face and Reflexologist Pandora feels good because she's made somebody feel good.
Maybe there is something in this.
Next small occurence - I ran into an old university friend in the street. I remember Frank for many reasons. He was the obnoxious nice guy at college - Arts Student mocker and computer nerd. Nothing to look at really, often referred to as Fat Frank. Frank had an IQ off the chart and this gritty determination that I always admired from afar. I think Frank lived in one pair of trakkie daks and his college shirt for the full two years of college. At the end of my time at college, Frank started to go out with a friend of mine and I got to see a different side of him - the nice guy I suspected was under the prickly facade there was proven to be so. Since then we've occasionally bumped into each other at the airport over the years. He always stops for a quick chat - and it's always great to run into him.
Running into Frank on Bourke Street the other day I was amazed. He's 40 kilograms lighter and looks absolutely amazing. He looks confident and happy - there's this wonderful inner glow about him - it was a real revelation. He told me what he did to achieve this and what made him do it. "I just got sick of being fat."
Know the feeling. But I almost what a before and after shot of Frank to put up on my fridge - but a photo wont capture his inner glow. If Frank can do it - so can I. Okay, so I may not be able to run at the moment - but that's no excuse not to push weights, swim, walk and monitor the diet carefully. All it takes is consistency and the will. I know this.
The drive is there to once again get on the horse and start losing again after what has been a difficult year. It feels great.
They may seem like inconsequential occurences - looking after somebody - something I seem to do a bit of, and running into a friend on the street - but there seems to have been a paradigm shift within me.
Even job hunting. The word is slowly getting out that I'm leaving Tin Can, String and Whistle. And I have a big smile on my face. Well, of course. New opportunities. New people to meet. New things to learn. The job market is currently good, I have good skills. For the first time in my life I have money in the bank. I'll put in an hour a day job hunting - though I already have two pimp* interviews booked for Thursday. I hope to be working again by February, but that will give me some time to swim and write and de junk my flat. I can also start thinking about replacing Andrew for a new to me Mazda 2 (been told off already for drooling on my computer screen.) And more funds can get put into my housing fund. And maybe a two week break somewhere with a pool mid year. And you never know who you will meet and how they will effect your life - always for the good.
I like this positive attitude thing. Okay, call me Pollyanna, dong me on the head for being bubbly - but I can't go back to believing I'm fat, ugly, crippled and stupid.
Positive, with an attitude of gratitude for all I have - friends, family, abililty and hope.
I really can't ask for anything more. The attitiude's doing me well, thank you very much.
Pand
*I use the term pimp as a loose term for recruitment consultants. Like real estate agents and insurance brokers I know they have a point, I just wish that there was some substance to them. They're a necessary, though somewhat pointless evil - and I'm thankful I don't have to deal with them very often. Also, when you find a good one who treats you like a human being, hold onto that person's card - follow them from agency to agency - they're gold.
By rights, me, Pandora Behr, probably should be a negative nancy. I have a session booked with the HR department of Tin Can, String and Whistle tomorrow where I know that they are going to tell me that my position is redundant and that my last day at work is going to be the 22nd of December. I'm overweight. I'm not overly good looking. I'm 42 years old. I don't have a significant other and never have. I only have an ordinary Arts Degree. My knee is playing me up at the moment. I have a personal trainer named Pinochet who makes me ache on a weekly basis. I take in people's cats when when they go on holiday - and I like it as it gives me something to talk to while I'm at home.
Rather sad existence, eh?
My attitude to all this is "F*ck 'em. Life is going to be amazing. Just you watch."
There's a rather wretched book out there called, "The Secret." Many would have heard of it - it's a new age classic allegedly teaching people how to get rich.
The central message of the book is that like attracts like - one of the general laws of physics. Okay, when I heard this statement a few years ago, at the mention of physics, I turned off immediately. See, I'm no good at physics. Just as I'm no good at running, computers, losing weight and getting well paid fullfiling work. Hmm.
Okay, like attracts like. Let's see how this works.
Okay, so one of the things that came out is surround yourself with positive people, some of it will rub off. And you think, yeah, alright, maybe.
Well, I've taken this on as my mantra.
There's been some fairly big occurences happen to me over the last few days. On the grand scale of things they may appear small but they've rocked my world enough to make me feel secure, engaged and hopeful.
First up, a friend asked for a bit of help. She's not in a good way at all - probably as low as a person can go without doing something stupid. She explained her situation, that she needed somebody round on the weekend to keep and eye on her as she was in a bad way. I said I'd be there. It's not that she's part of my inner sanctum, far from it, but I know how dreadful it is when you feel you have nobody to turn to when things truly turn to shit. Being there for her was a given - I'd never want anybody to feel like that - even if it's just being on the end of the phone - she knew somebody was there.
Knowing that the situation could have repercussions on me, I made some plans for the Sunday. A visit out to Blarney to cuddle the babies and Maow Maow. Arrange for Grounded Dutchman to come and receive his birthday reflexology treatment. Things I like doing that make me happy. Positive things to take away any residual angst from the other friend.
It worked - all is on the level. Chance and Lance (Blarney's babies) and the Maow Maow (Blarney's cat) got cuddled within an inch of their lives and Aunty Pandora felt restored. Grounded Dutchman left with his size twelve clodhoppers all shiny and new and with a big relaxed smile on his face and Reflexologist Pandora feels good because she's made somebody feel good.
Maybe there is something in this.
Next small occurence - I ran into an old university friend in the street. I remember Frank for many reasons. He was the obnoxious nice guy at college - Arts Student mocker and computer nerd. Nothing to look at really, often referred to as Fat Frank. Frank had an IQ off the chart and this gritty determination that I always admired from afar. I think Frank lived in one pair of trakkie daks and his college shirt for the full two years of college. At the end of my time at college, Frank started to go out with a friend of mine and I got to see a different side of him - the nice guy I suspected was under the prickly facade there was proven to be so. Since then we've occasionally bumped into each other at the airport over the years. He always stops for a quick chat - and it's always great to run into him.
Running into Frank on Bourke Street the other day I was amazed. He's 40 kilograms lighter and looks absolutely amazing. He looks confident and happy - there's this wonderful inner glow about him - it was a real revelation. He told me what he did to achieve this and what made him do it. "I just got sick of being fat."
Know the feeling. But I almost what a before and after shot of Frank to put up on my fridge - but a photo wont capture his inner glow. If Frank can do it - so can I. Okay, so I may not be able to run at the moment - but that's no excuse not to push weights, swim, walk and monitor the diet carefully. All it takes is consistency and the will. I know this.
The drive is there to once again get on the horse and start losing again after what has been a difficult year. It feels great.
They may seem like inconsequential occurences - looking after somebody - something I seem to do a bit of, and running into a friend on the street - but there seems to have been a paradigm shift within me.
Even job hunting. The word is slowly getting out that I'm leaving Tin Can, String and Whistle. And I have a big smile on my face. Well, of course. New opportunities. New people to meet. New things to learn. The job market is currently good, I have good skills. For the first time in my life I have money in the bank. I'll put in an hour a day job hunting - though I already have two pimp* interviews booked for Thursday. I hope to be working again by February, but that will give me some time to swim and write and de junk my flat. I can also start thinking about replacing Andrew for a new to me Mazda 2 (been told off already for drooling on my computer screen.) And more funds can get put into my housing fund. And maybe a two week break somewhere with a pool mid year. And you never know who you will meet and how they will effect your life - always for the good.
I like this positive attitude thing. Okay, call me Pollyanna, dong me on the head for being bubbly - but I can't go back to believing I'm fat, ugly, crippled and stupid.
Positive, with an attitude of gratitude for all I have - friends, family, abililty and hope.
I really can't ask for anything more. The attitiude's doing me well, thank you very much.
Pand
*I use the term pimp as a loose term for recruitment consultants. Like real estate agents and insurance brokers I know they have a point, I just wish that there was some substance to them. They're a necessary, though somewhat pointless evil - and I'm thankful I don't have to deal with them very often. Also, when you find a good one who treats you like a human being, hold onto that person's card - follow them from agency to agency - they're gold.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Today's Dummy Spit
I just lost it with the Grounded Dutchman.
There is a post coming about what is happening with the joys of jetlag, the fun of knowing I have to start looking for a job, my annual Christmas freak out, pondering spending my Saturday night minding a friend in crisis, knowing I have writing work to by Monday.... and endless list of stuff which has let me come back to my last five weeks at Tin Can, String and Whistle with a whimper, rather than a bang.
Instead, I'm choosing to write about what went down with the Grounded Dutchman in the coffee shop just now. It needs to be said. It might work out a bit of my anger, frustration and hurt.
I found him down at the coffee shop, noticing he'd disappeared for a bit. He was lost in thought, an empty coffee mug in front of him, just sitting there.
"Wassup?"
"Everything."
"Will you talk to me, what is the matter?"
Grounded Dutchman is very good at looking like a wounded puppy. He just looks sad all over. His long limbs just seem to droop. It's a bit pathetic.
Finally, after a few laboured breaths, he talks. "I can't get my point across in meetings. It's frustrating. I can't get out what I need to get out and it's beginning it impact on what I'm doing....". The litany continued about how he was feeling reigned in because he has some trouble with his speech. Then came the final straw.
"I just wish I wasn't a pharking cripple."
Cripple. The one word in the English language which tends to draw the normally mild-mannered Pand into a banshee.
My face flushed, my hackles drawn, I looked straight into his wounded grey eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, ennunciating with effect.
"YOU A NOT A PHARKING CRIPPLE. HOW DARE YOU DEFINE YOURSELF THAT WAY."
"But I can't get my point across. It's hard."
"Yeah, it's hard. It's not great. But you're not a cripple. You're a man overcoming a brain injury with some limitations around your speech. You walk and move perfectly. Your brain functions well. You can think. You can make jokes even if they are bad, you can dance and sing. Have you any idea how far you've come? When do you give yourself credit for this? So, you have a bit of trouble talking sometimes. So what - learn to do things differently - you can talk - it's just a bit hard sometimes. NEVER define yourself that way. It only gives people licence to discredit you."
I reached over and held his hand. There was a bit of moisture welling in his eyes.
"You're just a man with one limitation - you have trouble getting your point across. Find other ways of doing it."
He exhaled loudly. I grabbed his hand. Tear were streaming down my face by now.
"You are not a cripple. Don't define yourself that way. Don't give people the opportunity to define yourself that way."
He twigged that he'd sparked a nerve.
I went on.
"Nearly forty years ago, a little girl waited at the traffic lights with her mother near the Adelaide Children's Hospital. The little girl was in a red jumper and plaid skirt. Her feet were encased in clumpy shoes. Her legs were bandaged, hiding the rods of the calipers that were slowly straightening her legs. She was about to see the physiotherapist to see if these rods that had been a part of her life for the last were about to come off. These rods were the bane of her life. She hated them with every fibre of her being. A woman passed by with a couple of rowdy children."Look at that little cripple girl over there." she said pointing out the child."
Grounded Dutchman was listening now.
"That little girl was me. I was the crippled girl - and the crippled girl I continued to be. I've been labelled a cripple since I was a child. THERE'S NOTHING EFFING WRONG WITH ME. I used to have knocked knees and tip toes. They're fixed. But in calling myself a cripple it stopped me doing SOOOOOO much. Can't do that - I'm crippled. Running, jumping, just getting out there and living. It stopped me doing shit for thirty years. Can't you see what you're doing to yourself by calling yourself a cripple?"
He nodded.
"Never give them the opportunity to label you. NEVER call yourself that."
I think he got the point. By this time he was holding my hand. I resembled Alice Cooper, mascara streaked down my face.
"You can work through this. You will work through this. But none of this cripple shit. You're a man with a limitation. It's time to get creative and find some ways to work through it. Here endeth the lecture."
He gave my hand a final squeeze and we went back to the office.
It's amazing how one word can open a wound the size of the Grand Canyon.
There is a post coming about what is happening with the joys of jetlag, the fun of knowing I have to start looking for a job, my annual Christmas freak out, pondering spending my Saturday night minding a friend in crisis, knowing I have writing work to by Monday.... and endless list of stuff which has let me come back to my last five weeks at Tin Can, String and Whistle with a whimper, rather than a bang.
Instead, I'm choosing to write about what went down with the Grounded Dutchman in the coffee shop just now. It needs to be said. It might work out a bit of my anger, frustration and hurt.
I found him down at the coffee shop, noticing he'd disappeared for a bit. He was lost in thought, an empty coffee mug in front of him, just sitting there.
"Wassup?"
"Everything."
"Will you talk to me, what is the matter?"
Grounded Dutchman is very good at looking like a wounded puppy. He just looks sad all over. His long limbs just seem to droop. It's a bit pathetic.
Finally, after a few laboured breaths, he talks. "I can't get my point across in meetings. It's frustrating. I can't get out what I need to get out and it's beginning it impact on what I'm doing....". The litany continued about how he was feeling reigned in because he has some trouble with his speech. Then came the final straw.
"I just wish I wasn't a pharking cripple."
Cripple. The one word in the English language which tends to draw the normally mild-mannered Pand into a banshee.
My face flushed, my hackles drawn, I looked straight into his wounded grey eyes.
Slowly, deliberately, ennunciating with effect.
"YOU A NOT A PHARKING CRIPPLE. HOW DARE YOU DEFINE YOURSELF THAT WAY."
"But I can't get my point across. It's hard."
"Yeah, it's hard. It's not great. But you're not a cripple. You're a man overcoming a brain injury with some limitations around your speech. You walk and move perfectly. Your brain functions well. You can think. You can make jokes even if they are bad, you can dance and sing. Have you any idea how far you've come? When do you give yourself credit for this? So, you have a bit of trouble talking sometimes. So what - learn to do things differently - you can talk - it's just a bit hard sometimes. NEVER define yourself that way. It only gives people licence to discredit you."
I reached over and held his hand. There was a bit of moisture welling in his eyes.
"You're just a man with one limitation - you have trouble getting your point across. Find other ways of doing it."
He exhaled loudly. I grabbed his hand. Tear were streaming down my face by now.
"You are not a cripple. Don't define yourself that way. Don't give people the opportunity to define yourself that way."
He twigged that he'd sparked a nerve.
I went on.
"Nearly forty years ago, a little girl waited at the traffic lights with her mother near the Adelaide Children's Hospital. The little girl was in a red jumper and plaid skirt. Her feet were encased in clumpy shoes. Her legs were bandaged, hiding the rods of the calipers that were slowly straightening her legs. She was about to see the physiotherapist to see if these rods that had been a part of her life for the last were about to come off. These rods were the bane of her life. She hated them with every fibre of her being. A woman passed by with a couple of rowdy children."Look at that little cripple girl over there." she said pointing out the child."
Grounded Dutchman was listening now.
"That little girl was me. I was the crippled girl - and the crippled girl I continued to be. I've been labelled a cripple since I was a child. THERE'S NOTHING EFFING WRONG WITH ME. I used to have knocked knees and tip toes. They're fixed. But in calling myself a cripple it stopped me doing SOOOOOO much. Can't do that - I'm crippled. Running, jumping, just getting out there and living. It stopped me doing shit for thirty years. Can't you see what you're doing to yourself by calling yourself a cripple?"
He nodded.
"Never give them the opportunity to label you. NEVER call yourself that."
I think he got the point. By this time he was holding my hand. I resembled Alice Cooper, mascara streaked down my face.
"You can work through this. You will work through this. But none of this cripple shit. You're a man with a limitation. It's time to get creative and find some ways to work through it. Here endeth the lecture."
He gave my hand a final squeeze and we went back to the office.
It's amazing how one word can open a wound the size of the Grand Canyon.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Day 34: Going Home
I'm at Heathrow airport - or Sodom - depending on your view of the place. It's not my favorite airport by a long shot, but it will get me back to Melbourne in 24 hours, the A380 hopefully keeping all engines functioning for the first part of the journey to Singapore, God willing.
I haven't thought about going home at all, other than I have changed my sterling for Australian dollars - that is the sum of it. It's not that I haven't been trying to think about going home - or back to Australia as I tend to refer to it. I've just been busy for the last five weeks having fun. I know that when I arrive in Melbourne early Sunday morning either Blarney or Barney will be there to pick me up. I've got my coat in my bag, it's not cold enough to warrant it in the airport. In the back of my mind I know that I'm coming back to what could be construed as a big pile of poo - but I'm determined to make the very best of it.
The last five weeks have been some of the best of my life.
My wonderful friends have outdone themselves - and for those reading this, I'm not sure how I can repay you for showing me such a great time.
I've seen stuff I never thought I'd seen, from the hacked out tongue of a Dutch dissident to the joys of some of the greatest art in the world to the natural beauty of New England in fall as they so call it.
I've roamed foreign streets with my head held high.
I've had some great nights out on the turps - and found that wandering the National Gallery with a few pints inside you is as fun as watching Antiques Roadshow under the influence of interesting tobacco. (Yeah, that was pretty fun... but we're not supposed to talk about that....)
I've discovered that I do London transport with the flair of a native - so ingrained is the tube map in my head.
I've learned that self-preservation is more important that self-service, every time, all the time.
I also know that if I had Dorothy's red shoes and clicked my heels three times and said, "There's no place like home," I'm not sure where I would end up. Toledo is my spiritual home - hands down - it's resonance was off the geiger counter. London is the place that feels like home - even though I haven't lived there for eleven years - it's just a place where I feel good. Melbourne is where the bulk of my friends are and all my possessions reside - and this is a great thing too.
But looking back over the last five weeks, the thing that comes to mind most of all. Though things may not be perfect, I am one of the luckiest girls in the world.
Can't ask for anything more than that.
Talk soon after the jetlag subsides. They're calling my flight.
Pandxxx
I haven't thought about going home at all, other than I have changed my sterling for Australian dollars - that is the sum of it. It's not that I haven't been trying to think about going home - or back to Australia as I tend to refer to it. I've just been busy for the last five weeks having fun. I know that when I arrive in Melbourne early Sunday morning either Blarney or Barney will be there to pick me up. I've got my coat in my bag, it's not cold enough to warrant it in the airport. In the back of my mind I know that I'm coming back to what could be construed as a big pile of poo - but I'm determined to make the very best of it.
The last five weeks have been some of the best of my life.
My wonderful friends have outdone themselves - and for those reading this, I'm not sure how I can repay you for showing me such a great time.
I've seen stuff I never thought I'd seen, from the hacked out tongue of a Dutch dissident to the joys of some of the greatest art in the world to the natural beauty of New England in fall as they so call it.
I've roamed foreign streets with my head held high.
I've had some great nights out on the turps - and found that wandering the National Gallery with a few pints inside you is as fun as watching Antiques Roadshow under the influence of interesting tobacco. (Yeah, that was pretty fun... but we're not supposed to talk about that....)
I've discovered that I do London transport with the flair of a native - so ingrained is the tube map in my head.
I've learned that self-preservation is more important that self-service, every time, all the time.
I also know that if I had Dorothy's red shoes and clicked my heels three times and said, "There's no place like home," I'm not sure where I would end up. Toledo is my spiritual home - hands down - it's resonance was off the geiger counter. London is the place that feels like home - even though I haven't lived there for eleven years - it's just a place where I feel good. Melbourne is where the bulk of my friends are and all my possessions reside - and this is a great thing too.
But looking back over the last five weeks, the thing that comes to mind most of all. Though things may not be perfect, I am one of the luckiest girls in the world.
Can't ask for anything more than that.
Talk soon after the jetlag subsides. They're calling my flight.
Pandxxx
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Day 33: Resignation and Reconsideration
Bath and I have and interesting relationship. I've been here twice before and have remembered the place for it's incredible history and beauty, but also it's really cool vibe. It's a place where artists and writers and thinkers come to commune, take the waters and enjoy the relaxing and theraputic atmosphere.
Every time I have been here I've had a couple of disappointments.
This time is no different.
Actually, I've had a lovely day here. I've got to do the things I love most, which is wander around old shit and sit on trains. I love long distance train travel and the hour and a half journey to Bath is really pretty.
First job when I got here was to replace dodgy zebra bag. Dodgy zebra bag broke a wheel in Malaga, twelve hours after purchase and after a day of dragging it round the wheel had pretty much disintegrated and there was a large slash in the bottom on the bag. A trip to M&S sorted this and a new, equally ugly but sturdier suitcase has been purchased.
Next stop, the Abbey. Bath Abbey has always been a disappointment to me. It's one of the most picturesque cathedrals in the country - and very time I come here, something stops me from seeing it properly. First time I was here in 1992, I was away with my current boyfriend for the weekend. The abbey was closed for major reconstruction and cleaning. No access was to be had. Never to mind, I remember sitting on top of one of those tourist buses, about three degrees outside, Dave's arm about me. It was a great trip but there was the disappointment of not seeing the abbey.
The second time I came to Bath was with Gareth. My father had died about three weeks before. I was still in shock mode. "Fire bad, tree pretty," was about the extent of the conversation you could get out of me. I remember very little from that trip other than Gareth's eternal patience with me - something he's not normally known for.
Well, this time, I got in to Bath Abbey. For about five minutes. I made it ther around half past two only to be told that unless I wanted to listen to a children's concert I'd better get cracking - or come back tomorrow after ten.
Roight. I have to be back in London to meet somebody for midday. Not going to happen.
Seems the elusive Bath Abbey doesn't want me to visit her properly. I'M A CATHEDRAL JUNKIE - HOW DARE IT!
I did get in for a bit. I had a brief look around. I sat down in the pews and tried to get a feeling of the place, which was a bit hard when there's fifty eight years old jumping around in a sponsored epileptic fit to the beat of the tombola and jembai. (Actually they weren't too bad) After looking about, not feeling or finding anything new - the gorgeous fluted vaulting are still there - and it will be there when I come back at some stage to try again to see what all of the fuss is about.
The other thing I did like about the concert was it was really good to seem some noise and energy in the place. The African rhythms gave a wonderful juxtaposition to the austere stone. I really like that. Cathedrals should be used, not just revered or pondered over by rubbernecks like me.
Bath Abbey - I will see you one day. Just you wait!
The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around the Roman Baths - which has to be one of the best tourist sights in Britain. It's exceptionally well done. I remember coming here with Dave - they were good then, they're even better now.
If you ever come to Bath, this is the place you have to go - it's brilliant.
So my penultimate night in Britain was spent having a quiet night with my book in my super-heated hotel room. Something that doesn't change - the Brits overheat their hotels. I opened my window as far as I could - they will probably hate me for it, but I nee fresh air. My pint of milk was out on the window ledge so that it wouldn't spoil, an old winter trick from years back, though it often freezes in the depths of the season. There was a lovely deep bath to be indulged in - I only have a shower at home and with water restrictions, baths are only for holidays abroad (and at my mother's place where they're on bore water). Breakfast this morning was in a dining hall with lots of other odd bodies. The sausages were had with cold toast and brown sauce and coffee that had been over brewed. It all tasted WONDERFUL. Nobody does breakfast like a British B&B.
And now it's back to London for my final full day. The fact that Singapore Airlines won't let me check in is ominous.Supposed to be taking an A380....
Oh well, that's another adventure for another blog.
Pandx
Every time I have been here I've had a couple of disappointments.
This time is no different.
Actually, I've had a lovely day here. I've got to do the things I love most, which is wander around old shit and sit on trains. I love long distance train travel and the hour and a half journey to Bath is really pretty.
First job when I got here was to replace dodgy zebra bag. Dodgy zebra bag broke a wheel in Malaga, twelve hours after purchase and after a day of dragging it round the wheel had pretty much disintegrated and there was a large slash in the bottom on the bag. A trip to M&S sorted this and a new, equally ugly but sturdier suitcase has been purchased.
Next stop, the Abbey. Bath Abbey has always been a disappointment to me. It's one of the most picturesque cathedrals in the country - and very time I come here, something stops me from seeing it properly. First time I was here in 1992, I was away with my current boyfriend for the weekend. The abbey was closed for major reconstruction and cleaning. No access was to be had. Never to mind, I remember sitting on top of one of those tourist buses, about three degrees outside, Dave's arm about me. It was a great trip but there was the disappointment of not seeing the abbey.
The second time I came to Bath was with Gareth. My father had died about three weeks before. I was still in shock mode. "Fire bad, tree pretty," was about the extent of the conversation you could get out of me. I remember very little from that trip other than Gareth's eternal patience with me - something he's not normally known for.
Well, this time, I got in to Bath Abbey. For about five minutes. I made it ther around half past two only to be told that unless I wanted to listen to a children's concert I'd better get cracking - or come back tomorrow after ten.
Roight. I have to be back in London to meet somebody for midday. Not going to happen.
Seems the elusive Bath Abbey doesn't want me to visit her properly. I'M A CATHEDRAL JUNKIE - HOW DARE IT!
I did get in for a bit. I had a brief look around. I sat down in the pews and tried to get a feeling of the place, which was a bit hard when there's fifty eight years old jumping around in a sponsored epileptic fit to the beat of the tombola and jembai. (Actually they weren't too bad) After looking about, not feeling or finding anything new - the gorgeous fluted vaulting are still there - and it will be there when I come back at some stage to try again to see what all of the fuss is about.
The other thing I did like about the concert was it was really good to seem some noise and energy in the place. The African rhythms gave a wonderful juxtaposition to the austere stone. I really like that. Cathedrals should be used, not just revered or pondered over by rubbernecks like me.
Bath Abbey - I will see you one day. Just you wait!
The rest of the afternoon was spent wandering around the Roman Baths - which has to be one of the best tourist sights in Britain. It's exceptionally well done. I remember coming here with Dave - they were good then, they're even better now.
If you ever come to Bath, this is the place you have to go - it's brilliant.
And now it's back to London for my final full day. The fact that Singapore Airlines won't let me check in is ominous.Supposed to be taking an A380....
Oh well, that's another adventure for another blog.
Pandx
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Day 30 and 31: What I miss about Britain
After twenty four hours here I've realised that every time I come back, I miss the place a bit more. Though much has changed since I left here in 1999, there is a lot of stuff that has stayed the same.
Staying with Gareth and Georgina is great. It's like staying with family - the sort of family you like. They're used to house guests, just as I'm now used to being a house guest. Georgina runs a kosher kitchen - I know to ask what utensils to use - we get on fine. The dog, Sputnik, like me too. And I've helped the kids with reading and maths, so I've made myself useful.
So for today, we've been doing some shopping, taken advantage of the sales, and books - oh my goodness, almost half price. Thank goodness I have a two bag, 50 kg weight allowance for my bags. I've also done lots of tea and coffee, talking, school runs and general relaxing. It's been great. Some much needed down time before I get home. Also, I've got vegetables back into my diet, no alcohol and things aren't drowned in olive oil like they were in Spain. Preparing for the detox and diet that will wait for me on my return.
My day here has made me realise just how much I miss of this country. Other than my friends, all I've missed about Australia is the more temperate weather and the gym. I did leave here eleven years ago. I've been back a few times, but every time I go back, I realise I do miss it - even if everybody says it's going to the dogs.
I get back here and I find myself pining for some things. Here is a short list.
British television: Far better than any other telly I have seen in the world. You can find intelligent stuff easily on the box if you look for it - and there is lots of quirky stuff too. Yes, Australia has SBS and the ABC - but Britain doesn't have the Two and a Half Men channel - thank goodness. Channel Four is just bloody marvellous. Britain does, however, have a 160 pound a year annual television licence that allegedly supports the BBC. Glad we don't have that.
No sales tax on books: Nuff said - Eight quid for a book we play $32 for - would rather live here just because of this.
Kebab shops and curry houses - and lots of them: Lovely to know you can find a really good curry or kebab everywhere. Curry houses are thin on the ground in Oz - though they are getting more popular.
Great, free museums and art galleries: The National Gallery and the British Museum are staples. I could spend days poking around in there. We have good ones, London has great ones.
Nice and Spicy Nik Naks, Topic bars and Cherry Bakewell Tarts: Chocolate bars are 60 pence, crisps (or chips) come in 30 gram packages and are 40 pence and cherry bakewells are like the best sin food ever.
Marks and Spencer: The best work wear store ever. Does good knickers and food too.
Boots Chemist: The best chemist ever - and they do the best next item on the list.
Prawn and Mayonnaise sandwiches - pre packed: The Brits are great at doing pre-packed sandwiches. Okay, Austalian sandwich bars do great fresh one, but when you're in a rush, just grabbing something off the shelf is great. I'm easy pleased in Oz at the freshness and variety of our lunch bars, but you're never going to find a prawn sandwich pre packed, ever (let alone a prawn sandwich unless you make it yourself), but prawn and mayo sarnies are glorious Bummer. And pre-packaged sandwiches in Australia are rubbish anyway.
Variable accents: You can tell where people are from by the way they talk. No so much in Oz - though you can tell a bogan from a normal person and somebody from far North Queensland pretty easily.
Variety: England, small country, nearly sixty million people. Australia, large country, only 22 million people.Of course Britain is going to have more choice. It's a given. But it is great.
Brilliant beer: Whether it be Bishops Finger or Old Wallop, from stout to lager, the beer here, no matter what people say about it being warm, is great. Australia has a lager culture, but it is getting better (and I'll give it to Australia, better wine)
Pubs: The British institution of the pub is wonderful. It's like a living room you go to that isn't in your house, full of people you want to talk to. And there are no pokies in them, maybe a lone "fruit machine" but that is it. Miss English pubs big time - part of the reason I run the beer club at work - it's like being an innkeeper part time.
Eccentrics: I always fitted in here quite well cos I'm barking mad. Eccentrics are welcome around here, Australia you're just often seen as odd and made to know it. I miss that. Miss the intellingent banter of the barking mad too.
Choice of theatre productions: I used to be a regular at the Royal Shakespeare Company and the National Theatre. Superlative theatre here. Melbourne is good, but not to the same standard.
Old stuff: Again, Australia, 222 years of recorded history and a long dream time. Britain - nearly two decades of recorded history, and in the words of Blarney, lots of old shit. I like old shit. Gives me a sense of comfort.
Right, that will do you. I'm getting dropped at the station tomorrow to get myself of to Bath for the day, something I'm looking forward to making good memories of.
Take care,
Pandxx
Staying with Gareth and Georgina is great. It's like staying with family - the sort of family you like. They're used to house guests, just as I'm now used to being a house guest. Georgina runs a kosher kitchen - I know to ask what utensils to use - we get on fine. The dog, Sputnik, like me too. And I've helped the kids with reading and maths, so I've made myself useful.
So for today, we've been doing some shopping, taken advantage of the sales, and books - oh my goodness, almost half price. Thank goodness I have a two bag, 50 kg weight allowance for my bags. I've also done lots of tea and coffee, talking, school runs and general relaxing. It's been great. Some much needed down time before I get home. Also, I've got vegetables back into my diet, no alcohol and things aren't drowned in olive oil like they were in Spain. Preparing for the detox and diet that will wait for me on my return.
My day here has made me realise just how much I miss of this country. Other than my friends, all I've missed about Australia is the more temperate weather and the gym. I did leave here eleven years ago. I've been back a few times, but every time I go back, I realise I do miss it - even if everybody says it's going to the dogs.
I get back here and I find myself pining for some things. Here is a short list.
British television: Far better than any other telly I have seen in the world. You can find intelligent stuff easily on the box if you look for it - and there is lots of quirky stuff too. Yes, Australia has SBS and the ABC - but Britain doesn't have the Two and a Half Men channel - thank goodness. Channel Four is just bloody marvellous. Britain does, however, have a 160 pound a year annual television licence that allegedly supports the BBC. Glad we don't have that.
No sales tax on books: Nuff said - Eight quid for a book we play $32 for - would rather live here just because of this.
Kebab shops and curry houses - and lots of them: Lovely to know you can find a really good curry or kebab everywhere. Curry houses are thin on the ground in Oz - though they are getting more popular.
Great, free museums and art galleries: The National Gallery and the British Museum are staples. I could spend days poking around in there. We have good ones, London has great ones.
Nice and Spicy Nik Naks, Topic bars and Cherry Bakewell Tarts: Chocolate bars are 60 pence, crisps (or chips) come in 30 gram packages and are 40 pence and cherry bakewells are like the best sin food ever.
Marks and Spencer: The best work wear store ever. Does good knickers and food too.
Boots Chemist: The best chemist ever - and they do the best next item on the list.
Prawn and Mayonnaise sandwiches - pre packed: The Brits are great at doing pre-packed sandwiches. Okay, Austalian sandwich bars do great fresh one, but when you're in a rush, just grabbing something off the shelf is great. I'm easy pleased in Oz at the freshness and variety of our lunch bars, but you're never going to find a prawn sandwich pre packed, ever (let alone a prawn sandwich unless you make it yourself), but prawn and mayo sarnies are glorious Bummer. And pre-packaged sandwiches in Australia are rubbish anyway.
Variable accents: You can tell where people are from by the way they talk. No so much in Oz - though you can tell a bogan from a normal person and somebody from far North Queensland pretty easily.
Variety: England, small country, nearly sixty million people. Australia, large country, only 22 million people.Of course Britain is going to have more choice. It's a given. But it is great.
Brilliant beer: Whether it be Bishops Finger or Old Wallop, from stout to lager, the beer here, no matter what people say about it being warm, is great. Australia has a lager culture, but it is getting better (and I'll give it to Australia, better wine)
Pubs: The British institution of the pub is wonderful. It's like a living room you go to that isn't in your house, full of people you want to talk to. And there are no pokies in them, maybe a lone "fruit machine" but that is it. Miss English pubs big time - part of the reason I run the beer club at work - it's like being an innkeeper part time.
Eccentrics: I always fitted in here quite well cos I'm barking mad. Eccentrics are welcome around here, Australia you're just often seen as odd and made to know it. I miss that. Miss the intellingent banter of the barking mad too.
Choice of theatre productions: I used to be a regular at the Royal Shakespeare Company and the National Theatre. Superlative theatre here. Melbourne is good, but not to the same standard.
Old stuff: Again, Australia, 222 years of recorded history and a long dream time. Britain - nearly two decades of recorded history, and in the words of Blarney, lots of old shit. I like old shit. Gives me a sense of comfort.
Right, that will do you. I'm getting dropped at the station tomorrow to get myself of to Bath for the day, something I'm looking forward to making good memories of.
Take care,
Pandxx
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