Mini breaks, miraculous weather, and mad marsupials

The past few months I have really been spoiled rotten in terms of weekend locations. This past weekend was no exception. After a foul day at work on Friday (during which my colleagues discussed their um, preferences for the receptionist down the hall... for HOURS) I arrived at the ABC office to get a lift with a friend. Here I was mildly cheered by a young boy running up and informing me that there was face-painting on the floor above. He was decked out as a very overenthusiastic and slightly too orange lion. I was jealous.

Hopped in the car and headed south towards Jervis Bay. Currarong, our destination, is situated on the Northern headland that encircles the bay. Having seen the area before I was madly excited to be able to go back. The friends in question had purchased a small house a few years before, and utterly transformed it, from cabin to dream house, with the addition of a huge upper deck. From this, we could sit, huddled around a sizzling brazier, and watch the sunset with large glasses of wine. Strange though it sounds, it was lovely to know that it was properly cold, even by UK standards, and yet we were toasty warm.

The next day, after dropping in to the local Womens Association shop where they were all busy knitting away (socks, baby jumpers, and, rather bizarelly, ipad covers...) and complaining about the cold, we headed out on a bush walk around the headland. The sun was hot, but the pathway was unfortunately still completely flooded in places. Cue desperate attempts to swing over/squirm around the outside of the huge trenches of red, tea tree infused water that blocked our way. It was a great walk, and felt amazing to fully stretch the legs after weeks of non exercise. 

That evening we took deck chairs and a bottle of champagne down to the beach and watched the sunset. I was roundly derided for never having drunk champagne on a beach. C'mon guys, I am from London! It was a stunning sunset, prompting many many photos, only slightly marred when an overweight, middle aged lady came and started stretching out right in the middle of our view. Grr...

The following morning, shortly after dawn I was woken by a persistent cough outside the window. When it continued I tiptoed out to see what was going on. Ali was already awake and informed my of the presence of kangaroos at different ends of the house. Naturally, we somehow managed to get ourselves wedged between the two groups. There was a shaky moment when we had to edge back around the house, passing about a metre away from a large, unfriendly looking male. My God they get big! Retreating to the deck, we took up position to watch (and in my case play paparazzi).

Turns out the coughing is a way of the males stating they are annoyed with each other and would like to fight. After kicking away the youngster and female, they started feverishly playing with their balls (their own, not each others!) They then squared up and started to box. It was amazing. A few flying kicks. Circling. Bouncing. Suddenly it got halfhearted and they stopped, looking embarrassed. Evidently they had sensed they had spectators. Damn. It was truly magnificent though while it lasted!

After a large breakfast (featuring more champagne) we spent the morning at a different beach, this time looking over the lagoon rather than the ocean. The water was completely calm, with a yacht moored nearby, purely for photo ops, we decided. Passed a couple of hours lazing around and collecting shells before grumpily realising that it was time to head off, shake the sand from our feet, and troop back to Sydney. But not before some more food, and a little more champagne...!

Wow - what a weekend!

What a weekend! It had a bit of everything. Culture. Drama. Wonder. Intrigue. Vodka. Wine. etc etc

The weekend began early on Friday afternoon. Having pitched up about 10:30 (I had been there since 9...), the boss then announced that he was leaving the office at 1 to go to the "giggle and hoot" show at the Opera House, staring none other than Bananas in Pyjamas! I assumed that he was taking his young daughter to this - but, having learnt from experience, decided not to ask in case it was just a strange quirk of his (turned out he did - in his words "she loved it! She totally lost her noodle!") So I strolled out of the office at lunchtime into the hot winter sun, freedom!

That evening was the long awaited opening of the 'Sydney Moderns' exhibition at the Art Gallery of New South Wales. I arrived late, as usual, but luckily found some familiar faces amid the crush. Heading to the bar to take advantage of the free champagne, I promptly got a glass poured down the front of my dress. Grrrr. And people wonder why I rarely bother to dress up!

After about an hour of either dull, pointless, or insulting speeches, we finally got into the show. It was a great mix - some fantastic cubist pictures of various well known sites, gorgeous black and white photos of the construction of the bridge, even a full reconstruction of a drawing room. The dominance of female artists was particularly prominent, as was the general joyous use of colour. It was a great show, only slightly diminished by the over zealous bouncers throwing us all out at 8:30! Congratulations to the curators!

The next day was similarly sunny, so spent a restorative hour sunbaking before heading to a local pub to enjoy the build up to the Lions game. And my god what a game it turned out to be! The atmosphere was incredible - the Lions fans dominated the pub - dressed in kilts and flags and being as lairy as possible without getting thrown out. While the Aussie's tried (shouts of "you'll never be a fullpenny" were thrown at the screen!) we were the dominant side. And, as opposed to the second test, it was actually a decent game of rugby as well! Afterwards, bouyed up by our win, we headed to a local bar which prided itself on Heston Blumenthal style cocktails. Blimey it delivered. It was definitely the most impressive drinking 'experience' I had ever had. I ordered the English Summer Garden Martini - which promised to bring me the tastes, sounds and smells of the summer. How could a drink bring me sounds, I wondered?

The waiter approached carrying two slabs of turf. On one lay an ipod and an eyemask. Placing the eyemask over my eyes, I turned on the ipod and was overwhelmed with english sounds  - church bells chiming, leather on willow, trickling streams, wimbledon commentary (love the stereotypical english life  - hardly realistic..!). I then inhaled deeply from the smoking watering can. Freshly cut grass filled my nostrils. Sipping from the gin and cucumber martini, I examined the rest of the apparatus. This included edible soil (chocolate cookie crumbs) which you ate with a miniature shovel, and absinthe 'worms' (jelly) which you separated from the grass and soil using a miniature rake.

Across the table, Vicky was wrestling with the Breakfast Mojito. Served on a dental tray, it resembled a high school chemistry experiment. You brushed your teeth with the Colgate using a miniature toothbrush (yup, they loved their small tools!!), then shot the mouthwash (served in a conical flask) then injected the rum into your mouth using a syringe. Biting down on a lime cleansed the palate. The night continued... but the memories got a bit fuzzy...All in all, it was an awesome experience which i cant wait to repeat!

The next day, lunch at a friends yacht club was followed by a lovely nap to prepare myself for the Wimbledon final. Starting at 11 at night, it was a true commitment to watch the whole thing. After the first 2 sets I had had as much as I could handle. Every point provoked a panic attack. We had squirmed our way through, hearts in mouths. Thinking that it would go to five sets (ever the British attitude!) I headed to bed. Where of course I didnt sleep, but woke up every 2 minutes to check the score on my phone... Idiot.

Knackered and elated I headed to work the next day, arriving at 10 (trying not to repeat all the time wasted on Friday), I collapsed in my gorgeous reclining chair in the sun. And waited. And waited. Around 11, the CEO appeared, on the phone. I didnt want to disrupt his call, so didnt get up or call out. Half an hour later, he was still on the phone. I started to feel awkward - I really should have made my presence known by now. At quarter to twelve, my immediate boss (without whom I cant do any work) arrived. He greeted me, causing the CEO to jump out of his skin, and glare at me for hiding in the corner. Brilliant. Ah well. I didnt care. Because that evening I knew I was off diving in the harbour!

Heading straight to Manly from work, we got to the dock and met the others, set up the kit and headed off! The feeling of heading out at full speed into the inky blackness of the ocean was exhilarating! Getting into the water was a slightly different matter. To say it was cold does not even come close to the reality. But it was well worth it. The contrast between the torch beams and the looming darkness is a pretty amazing feeling. The whole dive was really quite surreal - the swell around the rocks added to the out of control feeling. After  some initial discomfort, getting repeatedly swept into a clump of kelp, I went with it. And had a fantastic time. We came across a sleeping turtle - which promptly woke up at having a torch shone in its face and grumpily swam off, as well as several small rays. Sadly no sharks, but there's always next time, and certain people werent too comfortable with the idea of them. One of which was the friend who I was diving with - she had a rough enough time anyway, cheerfully informing me afterwards that she had thrown up in her regulator. Ew.

Signing off for now - driving down to Jervis Bay this weekend - lets see if it can measure up!

Beth, meth, 'speth'

As it turns out, I have been very lucky with the easygoing nature of my living spaces over the last 9 months. Two friends had strange clauses written into their contracts. The first, at D and J's place, was that the weird flesh coloured crystal that lived on the window sill and plugged into the mains was never to be turned off. Naturally it gets turned off a lot. Quite often on purpose. It is now rather smaller, and seems to be melting. Odd behaviour for a crystal. The other friend, H, had the rather alarming clause "you must not speak to or make contact with the other people living in the house". Nice. Not remotely dodgy. As it turns out, maybe a worth while warning. They are very friendly, but keen purveyors of herbal and chemical remedies.

Last week I was on Oxford Street when I suddenly noticed a crystal in a shop window, exactly the same as the rapidly diminishing one in the Bondi flat. Excitedly, I texted my friend. Here is a record of our somewhat stilted conversation:

B: Just found a shop that sells crystals in case you kill yours!

D: A shop that sells crystals in case I kill mine? What does that mean?!?

B: The odd melty one that keeps getting switched off! Always good to know where to get a replacement just in case! A bit like when a friend asks you to look after their pet...

D: So confused. Are you trying to buy crystal meth?? And what have you been doing to people's pets???

At which point I gave up trying to make any sense and just replied:

B: Yes, thats it! Trying to buy meth but its raining so all the usual suspects are hiding inside.

D: ... Have you tried asking H's flatmates...?

To a normal person I would have thought this quite clearly translated as sarcasm. However, when I saw D on Tuesday at a pub quiz night, he started to ask something and then went quiet. When questioned, he looked shifty and muttered something about not wanting the whole group to hear. I pushed further. Whereupon he announced to my group of friends that he was worried about me and my obvious meth habit. There was a shocked silence. Followed by uproarious laughter. Various flattering comments flew, "shes too fat to be on meth! she still has eyebrows!" Poor sheepish D had honestly spent the whole week worrying that I was hiding a terrible secret. Which, considering we all spent the whole of last weekend together, would have been an impressive feat indeed.

Balderdash: bloody brilliant!

As I have probably mentioned before, having been introduced to this game, I have now fallen head over heels for it. The joy of Balderdash is that you don't need any general knowledge, and for once it helps to be slightly mad and overly enthusiastic.

To try and demonstrate its awesomeness, I brought back some great examples from this weekend to share:

The question at hand was to suggest the synopsis for the movie "Ooh, you are awful!"

Each person writes their idea of what the movie would involve (the 'dealer' contributes the correct answer to the mix) and then the answers are collected and read out anonymously, with the contestants having to guess which is the actual one. We came up with these to choose from:

• A kitsch drama released in 1985 about a family adapting to post WWII life in Britain.
• In which two young men fall in love with the same girl. After impregnating her with no knowledge of paternity they elope with one another to form a transvestite duo in the freak show at the circus.
• In this 1935 slapstick comedy, actress Simone Lesley discovers her shambolic husband has been cheating on her with his 18 year old secretary and seeks revenge through a series of hilarious pranks.
• 50 year old Mira Windle moves from small town Wisconsin to the bright lights of New York City. Initially ostracized, her catch phrase of "ooh you are awful!" catapults her to the forefront of society. Based on a true story.
• A con man searches for a girl who has the location of hidden bonds tattoed on her backside.
• A boy who launches a year long reign of terror over his best friend's hamster; involving poking it with a white hot stick, Chinese waterboarding, and finally killing it with a sledgehammer and a rusty nail.

After much deliberation, the votes were in. As it turns out, we all lost when it turned out to be the girl with the tattoos gracing her nether region. And people started to look at Dom a bit differently after learning he was responsible for the plot line involving the hamster... All in all, good fun, turning increasingly purile as the wine flowed. After an hour we all physically ached from laughing.

Points to anyone who can guess which was mine. Off to bed now, the combination of full working weeks and action packed weekends is really wearing me down - break out the violins...!

Rain, rugby, rivers and more rain

My friends had very kindly offered me the use of their family boat house for the weekend, so I wasn't too chuffed to wake on Saturday to pissing rain. After a swift reminder to myself that this is how most weekends start back home, we got on the road, radio blaring, drinking cold coffee (the others) and warm diet coke (me) and eating tim tams.

While I had been to Berowra many times before, this was the first occasion on which I would have to be 'the responsible adult'. I was determined to succeed, with none of my usual flustered fuck ups. Dropped the others off at the jetty with all the bags (at least the rain had let up at this point) and headed round to the marina to grab the boat. Here I fell at the first hurdle. I couldnt get through the gate. Vaguely remembering that I was meant to be using a fob, I started waving one of the many fobs on the keychain at everything in sight. Nothing. I then tried all the keys in the lock. A few fit, but refused to turn. I had just resorted to trying to bust the door open when someone opened it from the other side. He then pointed out, smirking rather too much for my liking, that the fob point was on the other wall to the one I had been looking at. In plain sight. Its red light blinked at me smugly. Glowering at it, I passed through and shut the door behind me.

Found the tinny and boarded. Successfully lowered the motor into the water. Untied one of the painters and left the other one looseish for me to easily cast off when I got the motor started. Big mistake. I jerked the pull cord back. Nothing. Tried again. Nada. Gave it a bit of choke. Still nothing. The pulling became more frantic. At this point the painter had clearly had enough and somehow I found myself floating towards the middle of the river with no idea how to get the boat under control. The very few people around looked on disinterested. My friends watched nonchalantly from the jetty.

Thank god an old man took pity on me and came over to lend a hand. Soon we were pulling away - me desperately trying to cling to what shreds of dignity I had left, and heading for the house. The rest of the afternoon was lovely, with lots of food, sitting in the suddenly appearing sun on the veranda, playing cards, and trying to get the fire lit without the help of such useful things as firelighters. As it turns out, there definitely can be lots of smoke without fire.

Headed back across the water to meet some more friends at the pub for the Lions game in the evening. Surrounded by Wallabies supporters, we tried to keep a vaguely low profile - not helped by three of us ordering kids meals, which attracted hateful glances from the waitresses and surrounding children alike when we asked if we could have our free icecream...! In fact, the kids present were a pain in the arse - constantly coming over and berating us for having a bottle of ketchup on our table, because "Daddy says its meant to stay on the counter". One look at Daddy's stony face, grotesque tats and large gut and we returned the ketchup...

The game was great, with Australia starting off convincingly strong despite 3 players being stretchered off. Unfortunately one was their kicker which was to have disastrous consequences. With England 1 point ahead in the final minute, the Wallabies were awarded a penalty. We were convinced it was all over, slumped over our drinks. The poor guy (incidentally just out of rehab for alcoholism) then slipped and buggered the whole thing up. We cheered for a split second, before the usual British "oh god, do you think the poor guys alright?" kicked in. Not a nation that does winning well. Unfortunately the cheer was enough to piss off the surrounding Aussies. The evil glares got darker and less subtle. Despite the support of the Irish girls on the next door table (not interested in the game, but had been drinking wine from the bottle for some time now...) we beat a hasty retreat.

Headed back down the hill and piled into the boat. It was now wet and very dark, two small headtorches not achieving much apart from making their owners look like crazed miners. Luckily there were no incidents of people falling out of the boat, as we headed back to the warmth of the house, which, judging by the pile of ashes, had had a roaring fire going as soon as we had left.

The rest of the weekend was an indulgent mish mash of eating, sleeping, drinking and playing games. (See the next blog for more on our epic rounds of Balderdash...) The rain barely let up from dawn on Sunday morning onwards. After only a couple of dodgy moments, such as a near collision with the ferry while searching for somewhere to moor the boat, we made it back to the other side of the river with all our bags vaguely dry and intact, piled into the borrowed cars (excellent insurance system) and limped off through the torrential downpour back to Sydney. And were home in time for the Block! (Anyone would think I had planned it...)

(This did not happen... nor did this)

New depths in delusional search for career direction

We've all had those days when we question our job - whether it be its purpose, responsibilities, working hours etc

But Monday really hit it out the box. Knowing that my boss had been off for a week, I arrived purposefully late to give him time to get his head together, answer the backlog of emails etc before I pestered him for my daily task. On arrival in the office, I found that unfortunately he hadn't got very far. Indeed, the only thing he could think of was a huge pile of financial documents that needed shredding.

Fine, I thought, I'm not above shredding. This is a job in which I spent weeks just scanning documents. Tedious. Repetitive. Soul destroying. Shredding couldn't be much worse!

Except there turned out to be no shredder in the office. So my task really was to hand shred (no, not using a manual shredder - hand shred as in actually rip all the papers up by hand) a massive box of very confidential papers.

7 hours later I had come to a few conclusions. 1) My university degree that cost me thousands of pounds and 3 years of my life was clearly invaluable, 2) There had to be some ulterior reason why this company is willing to pay me to merely rip up paper all day? 3) Hand 'shredding' is a lot more strenuous than it appears. My hands are now a reddened mess of blisters and paper cuts.

Scampering sheep and sensational scenery (or Sleepless in Scone)

This weekend was the Queen's birthday. Well, actually it wasn't, but it was her 'official' birthday. So we got a day off work. In England, you ask, the land of the sovereign? No, in Australia. Naturally. Any excuse for a day off... I may have made references before to their penchant for long weekends. Aussie friends are aghast to learn that we don't get St George's Day off work (Australia Day is a big one for boozing!) that Remembrance Sunday is always at the weekend (Anzac Day coincidentally seems to nearly always fall during the week...) and we don't celebrate our Queens Birthday with, yeah, another day off.

Woke up disgracefully early on Saturday to head to Scone for the weekend to stay with some friends. Not that it mattered if I was tired, as I wasn't driving, but its just not cricket old chap. Arrived just too late to join the others for the local sheep festival, the highlight of which was 'the running of the sheep'. Not quite the same impact as Pamplona but they did put red socks on the sheep to add to the drama... Points for effort!

The drive took us through wine country and then through the mining towns. It was hugely atmospheric, as the rain set in, with the industrial chimneys looming out of the low lying cloud, belching smoke to add to the mix.

Arriving in Scone we shoved the footy on and promptly fell asleep on the sofas, which the others were not impressed by when they arrived with the three month old twins in tow an hour later. The twins and sleep do not go hand in hand. As I was to discover first hand that weekend.

It was a brilliant weekend - amazing food, great company, gorgeous countryside. Highlights included the Lions win on Saturday, some epic games of Balderdash, and Jim's ten minute talk about favourite stubby holders he has owned. Beer holders being a crucial part of life. What was a deeply strange topic of conversation was at least impressive in its length and passion. Once again, only in Australia...

I spent the weekend having a bit of a love in with Lacie the Kelpie. She is possibly the most amazing dog I have ever known. Having complained bitterly about looking after a Maltese/Chihuahua cross a week before due to its desire to sleep on my pillow (and going to great lengths to get there) I was utterly content to curl up with Lacie on a single mattress on the kitchen floor. And on the sofa. And the kitchen benches. You get the idea - am still having shameful thoughts about stealing her and somehow smuggling her back to the UK.

I have also utterly fallen for the twins, despite all previous protestations of not really liking children. They are at the amazing stage of discovering smiling. It was lovely looking down at the tiny being as it gazed up adoringly. No-one looks at me like that - it was great! And almost made up for the late night screaming. It is truly incredible that something that small can make that much noise and for that long! It is also amazing that their heads smell so good. Random, but true. Of course I have now caught the cold that was keeping them up all night. But it was totally worth it!

Melbourne Part 3: Blisters, Bars and the Block!

Now I know that in previous posts I have moaned about my lack of luck with employment, and my distaste at not having a full time job. But there are some advantages. Such as waking up in Melbourne on Monday morning and realising I still another day and a half before I had to go home. It felt gooood!

Ok. Enough bragging. It was time to get up and explore more of this gorgeous city!

And explore I did. Bloody hell. I walked for 6 hours with barely a break! In recent years it has become clear that this is my preferred way to get to know a place. But it leads to incredibly discomfort and fatigue. Especially in the feet...

On my way to the Southbank (the visitor's centre had a vast array of tourist walks to recommend) it just so happened that the Block (the renovation program I have become rather fond of) was kind of on my way... Well, thats my story and I'm sticking to it! Not really expecting much, I headed towards it, happy to take a quick snap and move on. Instead, as I stopped to take my photo, one of the men in the show was dragging some stuff to the tip, so we had a quick, rather silly 'fan' conversation. Which basically was me awkwardly praising his interior design choices and him awkwardly making jokes until his girlfriend came out and told him to get back to work. While several tradies stood by and giggled before suggesting we all went for a beer. I was shocked. No! My avid watching has installed in me the difficulties faced with tight pressures - I would not be responsible for anyone getting behind. I muttered something about other commitments and legged it.

 Despite the rather atmospheric weather, the walk around the Southbank was rather nice. Especially bits like the bridges and the Aboriginal tree carvings in Enterprize park. From there I set out for Fitzroy Gardens and East Melbourne and took in the huge variety of architectural styles (some lovely, some less so...!) and the beauty of the leaves turning in the park. Then on to the Royal Botanic Gardens for a few more hours of wandering and photo taking. Which was only slightly ruined by a long and awkward work related phone call.  By the time it ended I had reached the Shrine of Remembrance.

Which meant there were plenty of people around to
witness my dance of annoyance when I hung up. Some people found this funny. Others seemed sure they were in the presence of a genuine nutter.

Made it home at exactly the same time the Suzie pulled up from work in her new car, nicknamed 'Vin' for its boy racer looks and tinted windows. We poshed up and headed to Collins Street to see 'The Place Beyond the Pines'. While, ostensibly, I cannot deny, we went to see it for Ryan Gosling, it was actually really good, if not enjoyable as such with its less than inspirational outcome. Definitely worth checking it out though. From there we went up 55 floors of the Rialto to Lui Bar. Which was very posh, with stunning views of the whole city. And we arrived just in time for the Crown Casinos waterside fire display. Which was fab! It was the perfect final evening (except for when I, once again, couldnt work out how to turn the taps on in the bathroom, due to their extreme modernity and stylishness) And on leaving the bar, a sudden flutter in a tree made us look up into the staring face of an owl!

Melbourne Part 2: Peninsulars, Paintings and Pinot Noirs

The next day we woke up early (well, for me!) and, rejoicing in the good weather, headed down the Mornington Peninsular. The road itself isn't that fascinating, but in a bid to liven up the drivers journey (you can only presume?) there are various 'interesting' sculptures along the way. And by interesting I mean deeply dodgy. There is a vast sheep skull made of heavily rusted metal. There is something that looks like a huge bird/bee drinking from a flower/random yellow object. And there is a block of flats with 'hotel' emblazoned across the front. Which, to the innocent bystander, looks exactly like a hotel. But its not, its art. Apparently....

We wandered down the beach at Sorrento. It was perfect weather, breezy, with a slight nip in the air, but absolutely gorgeous. The beach was littered with oyster shells and brightly coloured boats. I just couldn't believe that this was the last weekend before 'winter'! We then headed down to Portsea for fish & chips in the sun overlooking the bay. Poifect.

After lunch, feeling quite sluggish and sleepy, we walked from the lighthouse at Cape Schanck down to the beach below. The pounding waves and beautiful cliffs reminded me of Devon. Huge pangs of nostalgia. Which I quickly dismissed in favour of laughing at the looks on some of the tourists faces when they realised they had to walk back up the hill...!

So what best to do next on a Saturday afternoon. Wine tasting. Clearly. Headed over to the Red Hill vineyard for a pleasant hour of downing glasses of wine and giving opinions like 'hmmm musky with a hint of butterscotch'. Which went down rather better than when I tasted the desert wine and announced 'wow, that tastes just like um bongo!'

Back to the city for a lightning nap - very necessary - before dinner at a Greek restaurant on Brunswick St, a lovely bustling road in Fitzroy with a million tiny, quirky cocktails bars, which reminded me of life in Cape Town. Blimey, that was a long time ago now. After souvlaki and a few cocktails one of the girls persuaded us that we were in need of a dance. Cheryl charmed the bouncer (apparently completely unintentionally...!) into letting us skip the queue, and we were in. The mistake became apparent within minutes. We've all had those evenings when you realise you are about 4 hours of drinking behind everyone else in the place. After 5 minutes of cringing at the dance moves being employed we left.

The next day was all about culture. And food. French toast steeped in maple syrup made for a gorgeous brunch. Then checked out the Monet exhibition at the MCG before heading back to Federation Square to the Museum of Moving Image. A friend had recently visited the permanent exhibition there and had raved about the interactive possibilities which included a 360 degree camera booth in which you tried your best impression of the matrix moves. Despite not really knowing much about the matrix moves, me and Suze gamely slow motioned an epic fight scene, watched in amusement by several Asian tourists. To our intense disappointment, when we went to check our playback and email it to ourselves for future laughs, the mechanism was broken. We had no record of our fantastic stunt skills. What a loss to humanity! Of course it later occurred to us that the tourists had it all on camera. We await its appearance on youtube with a mixture of excitement and dread.

Feeling in need of a walk, we tackled the maze of alleyways that crisscross central Melbourne, starting with the infamous Hosier Lane and its impressive street art. What followed was an amazing array of graffiti, tiny shops, bustling cafes, street performers, polished arcades and self titled 'perfectly preserved, authentic barrel pulleys'. I had a field day with my camera.

After several pit stops in various tiny pop up bars for restorative glasses of red (we had been walking for hours!!) we dragged our exhausted bodies home and Suze taught me how to make Pho. Which I am hoping to try out on my unsuspecting housemates next week...

Melbourne: MCG, 'mazin mates and moody Mancunians

Within five minutes of arriving in Melbourne I had seen two beagles and two guys practising their cocktail acrobatics in a park. Clearly this was my kind of city.

Met up with an old friend who had kindly offered to put me up for a few days before heading back to Fed sq to meet Heath. Heath is a man I met in a pub in Sydney who, after five minutes of chatting, made the unwise offer that if I was ever in Melbourne he would get me tickets for the MCG. To the non sports nuts, that's the Melbourne Cricket Ground. As the cricket season was long over, I had instead picked an AFL game which was conveniently between the Sydney Swans and Collingwood (constantly referred to as the Manchester United of AFL, now in big shit following big racial slurs at the match) Poor unsuspecting Heath therefore received a call taking him up on his offer, and 'just wondering...' whether I could also bring two friends. To my amazement he had agreed. And turned out to be a thoroughly nice bloke, not an axe-wielding homicidal maniac! And while engrossed by the match, he was even willing to answer such questions as "why do they wear such short shorts?!?"

It was a fantastic game though, with Collingwood getting thoroughly smashed by the Swans, lots of beer being consumed, multiple insane questions being asked, terrible attempts to stifle uncontrollable giggles over the team songs, and also managing to catch up with two great mates whom I hadn't seen in ages (not including Heath the random sports fan in this one). Such multi-tasking!

Afterwards we walked in to the city and headed to a club called 'Ding Dong'. Which is perhaps not amazing to the majority of people, but I take delight in strange and random things. We arrived just in time to see the main act of the evening - an Oasis tribute band. There were a lot of rather excited looking people who were all conscious of being slightly too old for the venue. The band strutted on, complete with wigs, costumes, and semi-accurate Mancunian accents. Then 'Liam' arrived. He was, erm, intersting. He had the act down, the slouchy, grumpy mannerisms, the strange mac, the singing from underneath the mic, the yelling at 'Noel'. Unfortunately he couldn't sing. And after four songs announced that he had exhausted his repertoire of Oasis songs. Which didn't go down so well with the die hard fans crowded around the stage. As Liam stropped off, swigging from a bottle of gin, which was all too clearly filled with water, the rest of the band decided to continue without him. It was a massive improvement.

Public transport, private turmoil

I am a devotee of public transport. Especially buses. I love em. That being said, there are times when you find yourself in awkward situations. And then, suddenly, the public aspect becomes all too obvious, with the central aisle as your stage for humiliation. Such as when, during rush hour, the bus jolted and you ended up sitting in a businessmans lap. Or when the bus jolted and you grabbed something to steady you, and it, well, wasn't the bus. Let's leave it at that.

esterday I got on the bus after work. It didn't look very full so I progressed down the aisle (it was a bendy double length one) looking for an empty two seats. Because we all feel we deserve two. Let's be honest.

Having walked purposefully towards the back it suddenly struck me that all the doubles already had one occupant, and I was now right at the back with a motley crew of companions to choose from. Having come this far, it would be very blatant to retreat up the front of the bus and find a nice middle aged Mum to sit next to. So I looked at my four choices and they looked at me. Damn. Now it was going to look personal. Some kind of inner shame forced me to pick the worst of them, the one who looked like he stank and was clinging to the window for support, just to prove I wasn't prejudiced against smelly drunk wierdos. As it turned out, he didnt just look like he stank... it wasn't the most pleasurable journey.

Today I flew to Melbourne to stay with an old friend for a few days and check out the self proclaimed style capital of Australia. Since becoming a surly teenager I've got used to being called over for extra drug checks etc and being asked why I had 'such dead eyes' by airline officials - you would think they would be used to people looking a bit rough after long haul flights!! However in the last year this has changed. I am now always the one who gets pulled over to be examined for exam explosive residue. Is it the hair? No officer it's frizzy because I don't take good care of it, not because it's singed

Paranoia: the paranormal, a pervert, or a possum?

Last night I went to bed early with every intention of, for once, feeling rested and refreshed in the morning. But it was not to be.

I was woken in the middle of the night by the sound of steady breathing. This worked its way into my dreams, waking me slowly, provoking little alarm. Until I realised that it was real, and not part of my imagination. Whereupon I can assure you that waking to hear breathing that is not coming from you, in a room that you know was otherwise empty when you went to sleep, is a TERRIFYING experience.

The breathing was slow and heavy and felt horribly close by. While trying to remain incredibly still I attempted to collect my thoughts. It sounded human. It was coming from the direction of the window that I always leave open at night. I was petrified. It occurred to me that every night I am pretty shameless about getting changed in front of the windows (there are no curtains) - extremely obviously backlit against the inky darkness outside. This normally doesn't worry me. I assume that no-one can see, and if they can, they probably don't care. But now, merely hours later, there was someone in my room, breathing heavily. Bugger.

Just as I was working myself up into a total state, the breathing stopped. Oh my god. The thing had realised I was awake. Quick as a flash I whipped on the light. Nothing. The room was empty. But my gaze was drawn to the wide open window.

I waited a few minutes, decided I was being mad and hearing things that clearly weren't there, turned the light off, and tried to go back to sleep. But, obviously, sleep by this point was impossible, as I was too busy listening intently. I was slightly torn. Part of me wanted to not hear the noise again, but that would mean I had imagined the entire thing and was quite clearly two sandwiches short of a picnic. The breathing started again. Aaaaaaaa! Slowly, very slowly, I made my way over to the window and eased it shut. I could hear the breathing outside. But, blessed relief, it could no longer get in. So, back to bed. Whereupon, after a few minutes break, which lulled me into a false set of security, the breathing moved to the other window. The window right behind my head. 

By this point, I was starting to consider that maybe my hosts hadn't bother to warn me, but my room was actually haunted. By the ghost of a heavy breather. Looking back, it is perhaps a little strange that my mind went there before a more normal conclusion. The breathing got louder (I could still see nothing out the window) when suddenly there was a change. Still steady and deep, but now there was an audible hissing in between. Snake? Surely not. But having had that thought I realised, steady on! This is Australia, everything dangerous/strange/incredibly freaky is animal related. So I typed 'heavy breathing Australian animals' into google (no I'm not kidding, I actually did). The answer was conclusive. It appears that there is no difference between the noise of a rampant peeping tom and a bloody possum. 

The bastard had struck again. In the words of that immortal genius, Withnail: "the fucker will rue the day!"

That being said, I am no closer to knowing how to get rid of him. Although, after last night's intense study of his breathing, it is possible that he is asthmatic.

Maudlin Mondays

Today was one of those mornings when the duvet feels so warm and snuggly and you know that you have to get up and face the icy conditions caused by your insistence that the window be open all night. One of those mornings where you hit the snooze button about 20 times, and every time the alarm goes off again you choose to discard one of the morning activities in favour of just a few more minutes in bed. Shower? Breakfast? Nah. Snooze.

Somehow, miraculously, I still managed to make it to the office on time, to find that for once there was someone there to let me in! Result! There was not, however, a computer that I could use, so a frustrating hour of trying to sort that out ensued. Got to love the feelings of hostility radiating from my colleagues as I forced them to help me remedy a problem that they refused to acknowledge they had caused. At one point, I even found myself apologising for the fact that one of them had left their laptop at home. Crazy.

Feelings of Monday morning joy were not helped by the shopping centre in which the office is situated choosing to blast out Joni Mitchell all morning. Impossible to ignore, I will surely now be humming it for weeks. The kittens in the next door pet shop were going mad as I passed them on my way to lunch. Clearly, they are not fans.

On the subject of animals, I am pretty sure that I had a nighttime visitor last night in the form of a possum. I woke up to rustling, but, this being a wild and dangerous country (as I believe I may possibly have touched on before!!) I didn't really want to turn the light on and check what it was. In the morning I found that the orange I had left on my desk had been neatly peeled and eaten. Cheeky beezum! There have been a few possum incidents lately. A friend of mine was sitting on her bed the other day when a possum fell through the ceiling and landed on her feet. It then proceeded to sit at the end of the bed and stare at her, while she hyperventilated and rang her flatmates to demand rescue. Its an odd one when you feel scared of something so fluffy - but at the same time its a bit like having a Jack Russell sized rat sitting at the end of your bed. Disconcerting. Unfortunately, there are strict laws stating that possums are not to be harmed. Indeed, if you manage to catch one, you are only allowed to move it something like 200 yards before releasing it. Whereupon it will likely return to the scene of the crime. I recently discovered that one friend ignores this rule with relish - indeed, if captured, he will whack the bag containing the pesky creature against a wall until it dies. Apparently, when his children were little, he used to encourage them to help him with this 'fun game', which the poor kids did, not realising that the bag contained a (partially) live animal. At least, so they claim...

Escaping the office for an early lunch, I wandered like a zombie around the shopping centre before coming across the newly constructed children's playground. It is awesome! Shaped like a pirate ship with a mast, sails and a crows nest, there is a soft play area, springy trampoline bit, and a ball pool. I know what I want for my next birthday!!

I then went in search of food. While wandering aimlessly down the aisles of Coles I suddenly noticed someone staring at me oddly. I hadn't realised I was humming the Jaws theme out loud. He must have been questioning my intentions towards the biscuits...

Twitter, toes and Tarzan

Today I got so bored in the office that I did something drastic. I joined Twitter. Previously I had been of the opinion that only the hugely self important could justify this (as opposed to writing a blog, which is, um...self deprecating, witty and...????) But I was in dire straights having just spend hours formatting a stack of medical papers, only to discover they contained the wrong questions. So I thought - a problem shared is a problem solved, or halved or something. Why not share my boredom with the world. Enlighten other people's lives with my ennui. Tell all about my tedium. Make lists about my listlessness. Brag brag brag, blah blah blah.

I announced my arrival to this frightening, new arena with a simple statement. Erm. "Tweet tweet". Original.

Half an hour later I made a joke about a low flying uterus (I was deep into the Obstetrics papers by this point)

After lunch I decided that I could bring joy to a strangers life by broadcasting my preference for red grapes.

3 hours after my experiment started I decided to call it a day. Blessed relief, not just for me, I'm sure.

The winter that people have been making reference to for months has finally just about hit. While there are generally still a few hours of sun during the day, by 5 its getting dark and rather nippy. A recent pub night sitting shivering in jeans, a hoodie, and a large scarf, was rather too reminiscent of England. I also made the rather horrific discovery that I had only brought two pairs of socks with me. Both of which I found to be in need of washing. With the concept of mid week laundry a seemingly impassable hurdle, and unable to wear my fuggs to work (fake uggs/fat uglys) I made the wise choice to brave the weather in ballet pumps. The walk home was certainly different with completely numb feet. Luckily, a hole the size of a fifty pence piece in the sole meant that constant sharp jabs staved off the pins and needles. Small mercies.

So there was only one thing for it. Snuggling up in bed with a good book. Except that my kindle has decided that after 3 years of unwavering service it now fancies a rest. Or has just broken. So instead I took the obvious path, and raided the house's movie library. The discovery of a vast Disney collection threw me into paroxysms of delight. The hours flew buy - frost bitten toes long forgotten - and wrapped in a duvet for good measure. But, rather like gorging on junk food, what seemed like such a good idea at the time left me feeling maudlin, sick, and more than a little confused. I'm pretty sure that "Anastasia" is not a particularly correct historical portrayal of the outcome of the Russian royal family. And on discovery of a human baby, it seems more likely that Tarzan would have become dinner or some kind of chew toy at the very least, rather than the adopted son of a silverback.

Run, respire, rasp, wretch, retire

With so many friends signing up for such impressive feats as the London marathon I decided the time had come for me to learn to run. I've always rather fancied the idea of being a committed runner - pounding the street, expression serene, neon sportswear gleaming.

Growing up I would do anything to avoid it. Give me a competitive team sport and I was first in line, but come track events at school and I would invariably have forgotten a vital component. Such as my shoes, or the ability to walk without falling over.

So Sydney was to be the location of my transformation. Perhaps not the best choice. I had not factored in having to share my chosen pathways with bronzed and ripplingly muscled athletes. Complete with their attitudes towards new joiners to the activity, which range from patronisingly sympathetic to downright disdainful. One such runner is there everyday at the same time. We pass each other with a hostile nod. This is the most civility we can manage after he laughed at one particularly violent stumble which left me plummeting towards the harbour waters... I'm sure it looked funny, but openly laughing was just cruel!

When I tell people I have started running they are quite often impressed, if disbelieving. Until I explain the reality of my evening runs. For after a week of torture, sweat making my eyes sting, and limbs screaming in agony, I have to admit there has been no improvement. I am still most easily compared to the loco looking stray dog who careers all over the path, weaving drunkenly, eyes blazing, nostrils aflare and tongue protruding slightly. The one that parents drag their children away from in fright.

In search of encouragement I asked my marathon running buddies how long it would take before I got used to it? And how long before these runs began to feel like anything more than a prolonged method of suicide. The answers were bleak. 'About a month' featured far too often. So after a month I would join the ranks of serious joggers who didn't suffer from bright red faces and floundering limbs? Well no. And any lapse in running would take me back to square one.

So I turned to Google. Now im taking a leisurely stroll to buy DC safe in the newfound knowledge that 'running is not recommended for women'. If it's on the internet, it must be true.

Sun, Shane, and Shameful similarities

I have a gift. Well, its not really a gift. Actually its not a gift by the stretch of anyone's imagination. Its more of a weird hobby. Anyway, enough beating about the bush... are you ready for this...? I quite often see people as animals. Yeah, anticlimactic, I know.  I hasten to add that I don't routinely see giraffes walking down the street or anything - apart from that one time I was convinced I was being followed by an Alsatian. But we don't talk about that...

And its not everyone. But certain people have very distinct characteristics that identify them with certain animals. Like my favourite example: Dustin Hoffman and a Koala.

See...?

Generally I keep these observations quiet. While they are by no means meant to be offensive, when I once told a school friend that he definitely looked like some kind of lizard, it didn't go down well. My Mum did at least agree with me when I shared this with her later.

Personally I don't see myself as having a very distinct similarity to any one species (well, apart from human, I hope!). A lecturer at university once told me I bore a disturbing resemblance to a squirrel monkey. Which I would have ignored if the lecturer in question hadn't been one of the world's leading primatologists. 

More recently I have been compared, very unkindly I feel, to a cockatoo. White face, yellow hair, screeching voice. Grrr. When looking into jobs in the mining industry (where else can one make money in Australia?) the same 'friend' pointed out that I could easily get a job... as the canary.

At this point I will go on a slight tangent. When people think of Brits abroad they think of loud voices, drunken behaviour... and lobster red sun burn. Now I am not a sun worshipper as such. Unlike many of my fellow countrymen I get bored and would rather be doing something with the day (unless I can sleep in the sun, I never pass up the chance to sleep - thats my inner sloth talking). The pursuit of a tan is not my number one goal. As a pale skinned person with an abundance of freckles, I'm never going to achieve the colour of a digestive biscuit. Only the crumbly texture. But I do enjoy the odd hour 'catchin some rays' while reading a good book and enjoying an ice cold DC. Today I finished off the new Shane Warne biography (ok, fine - yellow hair, slightly overweight, bit dumb, the similarities have again been pointed out before). Living in a hot country has inevitable had some effect on my colouring - I recently found some pigmentation on my thigh and back - they look like tea stains. Really no big deal. But on returning inside and looking in the mirror I was aghast. For now I have a large brown stripe running down the bridge of my nose. Not unlike a kind of reverse blaze, such as would be found on a horse. So from monkey to cockatoo to canary, now, it would seem, I resemble nothing more than a splodgey palomino pony. Bugger.

Signs, sniggering and speedos

This week I have been revelling in road side signs. And shop signs. And any kind of sign really.

In England, a sign is generally just a thing you look at for information. Here, its a place to display the creativity that everyone obviously has oozing out of their pores and cannot find a normal creative outlet for. To proudly plaster that most Australian of things 'the pun'.

There is a wide range to observe. Some may remember I previously mentioned the gorgeous freeway billboard proclaiming "PERFECT CONDITIONS!!!... for melanoma". Like what they did there. It raises the spirit, and then brings it crashing down. Recent highlights include the plumbers van that I passed on the way to work "We repair the problems your husband 'fixed'". Nice use of the inverted commas. Or the furniture shop on Parramatta road which boasts "butt ugly men making handsome furniture for beautiful people".

While some are truly terrible, making you cringe in the style of an Anne Hathaway film, "bedding and blankets... they're the sheet!" I have become rather fond of the distraction they bring to a normal bus ride. If only I could now stop sniggering out loud everytime I pass one. I don't seem to manage a bus ride without getting some kind of shushing or dodgy look from someone.


But its very hard to keep a poker face when asked where you are meeting this evening and having to shamefacedly whisper "Thai me up" down the phone, in the hope that those around you will realise you are talking about an Asian eatery, rather than planning a 50 shades moment. Or when your phone alerts you to a free wifi hotspot which you excitedly click on to only to discover its called "just fucking try it... I dare you". Or where men in speedos walk barefoot down a major street and no-one bats an eyelid. Ok, so that has nothing to do with signs. But it still constitutes a good morning distraction.

An advertisement of a different kind...

Rugby ridicule and some serious scanning

Today, my boss tried to kill me. Which rather suggests I haven't made the best impression at my new place of work.

Ok, so it wasn't intentional. Although, since coming to Australia, the number of incidents of unwitting shellfish consumption (since when has an allergy been an amusing toy for your friends to play with...?!?) have been so high that I'm beginning to think its a conspiracy.

The new job has not got off to a flying start. Today I scanned and cleaned sticky labels off the filing cabinets. The day before I scanned some more. As I sit there, watching the pages feed into the machine I cant help thinking how glad I am to be £25K in debt for a degree which has led me to this prestigious position. As the boss said, if I play my cards right, I might even one day be promoted to the dizzying heights of receptionist...!

But the pain is worth it if it means I can afford to play two up on Anzac day and go to see the Waratahs play the chiefs tonight. Maybe I'll finally get to grips with the difference between rugby league and rugby union! So far I have had the following explanations:

• League is a gentlemen's game played by thugs and union is a thugs game played by gentlemen.
• One has fat people pushing around in scrum and the other has people running very fast at each other and as hard as they can and taking horse tranquillisers.

Its hardly surprising I'm confused! However, it is essential I work this out to avoid the merciless bullying I get at work. Admittedly, its a sports management company, I should probably make an effort to be more knowledgeable.

But no, the new office is good really. Even if the rest of them turn up in matching clothes (today its pink shirts and jeans) and all apparently share the same birthday... Which makes me think I have probably stumbled into some kind of cult.

The hazards of horticulture

After roughly a week of seriously hideous weather (think shoes floating away down the street when merely trying to cross the raging torrent that used to be a road) the sun has finally broken through. So, with a free day in hand, I decided to spend it in the garden, luxuriating in the fact I had the whole place to myself. Grab a cool drink, catch some rays, read a good book. What could go wrong?

Firstly, the family next door decided to have a major domestic. The incredibly nasal and whiny twang of the daughter floated over the hedge. She was resolute - the word 'northwards' did not exist. Woe betide her poor parents who were clearly trying to do her prep for her.

When she eventually stomped off inside (which surely would have been a better place to have the row, rather than out in the open, disturbing the peace of innocent eavesdroppers...) I returned to my pleasant pastimes. Reaching for my drink I saw a small patch of grey under my chair. It was a dead mouse. Unmarked, but very dead. And ruining the otherwise immaculate lawn. How thoughtless of it. Picking it up by the tail I carried it to the flowerbed. Only to see another one! And then a few inches away another - barely alive and drenched by the morning downpour it was trying to move but failing. I felt torn - should I put it out of its misery? But then I remembered a horrible story about a friend who found a baby rabbit that he was so sure was injured, because it wasn't moving, and he should therefore kill it in the interests of being 'humane'. While discussing with his brother whether it was better to hit it with a hammer, or, for some inexplicable reason, whether to drive a nail into its head, the poor baby rabbit lolloped off. Evidently it was either napping, or riveted by the conversation of these two crazy Danes. Similarly, another friend had found a bird that was on its last legs. She opted to kill it by bouncing a basketball on it. But missed somewhat, so had to do it again. And again. All observed by another member of the family, I think, who then reported her to her parents for animal cruelty. Or something along those lines. So much for trying to do a good deed. So I left the poor mouse, wondering somewhat what silent killer was murdering all these rodents. Only one thing came to mind but I dismissed that as ridiculous. This might be Australia, land of the deadly, but torrential rain does not kill. Right?

Having noticed the mice I found myself unable to concentrate on my book. The dangers of Australian nature kept creeping into my psyche. Suddenly I became aware of constant rustling, each disturbed plant hiding a potential killer. Although all I could see were millions of tiny lizards romping in the sun and chasing a large cockroach, I became convinced that something of the snake or spider variety was sure to be watching me, waiting for my guard to drop. And then a massive piece of the palm tree above decided to fall on my head. I retreated inside. Clearly sitting in the garden is far too dangerous for an innocent Pom.

Swimming stereotypes and other offensive observations

There is not much that I feel qualified to bitch about (ok, yes, not that that stops me!) But swimming I can. Years of training and sitting on the side of pools freezing your butt off and waiting for your race to be called means that you have earned this privilege. Even the memories make me shiver. Nowadays, I love a good swim, but often only once I actually arrive there. Getting me to a pool is a little like trying to take a cat to the vet...

The other day, the heat was such that I consented to visit the public pool in Victoria Park. Its a lovely oasis of calm stuck between two quite major roads. After the initial welcome cool of the water, and the wonderful stretching of my atrophied muscles, I settled in the shallows for a breather, and to observe my fellow swimmers. It became obvious quite quickly that there was little difference between the dynamic of English and Australian pools. Despite the surroundings...

Generally, the participants can be divided into a few distinct categories (not counting the normal people, like us, of course):

• The overenthusiast - who has all the right kit, but doesn't have the technique or speed to back it up. They will use the diving board when no-one else is, sending shock waves around the pool, and commit other such fauxpas as taking off too soon after the previous swimmer just so they can overtake and feel smug. The fact that they can't keep this pace up and proceed to hold up the whole lane of other polite swimmers who don't want to damage their seemingly fragile ego, seems to pass them by.
• The determined weight controller - overly dedicated to their goal. Ranging from the overly muscular middle aged women who react fiercely to anyone who glances their way, to the sincere crew of overweight flounderers who seem to manage to get in everyone's way but at least smile about it.
• The terrifying older man - these occur far too often. Probably harking back to an athletic youth, they plough a furrow down the middle of the lane, glaring (or swearing) at those who take them on. They often choose a deliberately offensive stroke (such as butterfly, or sidestroke) and then surge forward like an angry walrus engulfing all in their path. It is likely that the man we came across this week actually had a condition such as tourettes - he was so gratuitously offensive to everyone that the whole lane cleared. The fact that he then moved lane in search of new prey made is clear that swimming wasn't his primary motive.
• The embarrassed parent - as their offspring ignore the 'free play' lane and run amok, tangling with other swimmers and screaming like a banshee. They will often slip and fall on the wet concrete - a life lesson learnt? No, an excuse to scream for an icecream, or a slushee. The parent may manage one awkward length of the pool themselves before being called back to shiver near the steps and hope vehemently that their child doesn't hurt anyone else (the child's safety by this stage less of a concern). These children were momentarily stunned the other day by the appearance of an adult in their lane. Given that he had rippling muscles and tattoos of rifles on both thighs (clearly visible due to speedo attire) I wasn't surprised at the odd looks he was getting.

In an outdoor pool, you also meet the sunbakers. Of which, in a place like Australia, there are hundreds. They congregate at the pool with no intention of getting wet, setting up their towels in locations where they are likely to be splashed or dripped on, and can then make a fuss about it. They are often the beautiful people of the world, which immediately causes consternation among those more normal bodied folks and creates an atmosphere of unease and insecurity. This week, I witnessed the wonder of the avid tanner, who sprayed oil on herself and lay prone for hours, occasionally shooting hate rays at the girl next to her who was about 5 shades darker. Having only seen her from the back, it seemed unlikely that this sunbather had realised that her neighbour was quite clearly of African descent and hence was likely to remain darker than her, no matter how hard she tried...

We also had the entertainment of about 6 trainee divers, who disappeared into the deep end to lurk under the water, looking up in envy at the carefree swimmers who weren't being called on to perform such tasks as removing your mask underwater. This, I remember from my own training days, is pretty tricky the first few times. Made more so by the fact that you have already surveyed the debris that litters the bottom of the pool - hair in ragged clumps, old plasters, more snot than you can every imagine - and so are even more reluctant to perform said task. Persist my friends, it will be worth it when you reach the sea. Which, while it has been described as 'nature's toilet', is at least large enough that the litter has dispersed into manageable portions.

An Idiots Guide to Interviews

Job interviews.

I am in the minority in that I secretly rather enjoy them - my narcissism is such that talking about myself non-stop for half an hour (a specialist subject of mine) holds no fears (yes, I sigh, I am rather fascinating, aren't I...), and I love snooping around other people's offices. However, this does not unfortunately mean that I am good at the interviewing process. Far from.

This morning was no exception. It went as follows:

Get up. Feel sick. Put on suit. Think of suitable excuse for not wearing heels. Catch bus (after panicking for ten minutes that I had missed it). Realise am hyperventilating slightly. Attempt to calm down. Thank God that I have left mysef a clear half hour in which to sit down, have breakfast, and transform myself into a polished professional.

Find charming breakfast cafe, called 'Loaf and Devotion'. One of those basic, yet trendy places - scrubbed wooden tables, red and yellow stools, tiny privet hedges in pots on tabletops. Sandwich menu so long and varied that I start to get scared just looking at it - and what the hell is bocconcini??? Avoid the temptation of french toast with maple syrup. Sticky isnt a good look. Sit down to enjoy cream cheese bagel, while watching 'fruitman sam' (great business name!) deliver to the smoothie stand next door.

Ok. Ten minutes to go. Stand up, check for crumbs and stray bits of cream cheese. Attempt to tame the morning waffro. Give self rousing pep-talk of the "you can do this" nature - once more unto the breach etc. Get bag stuck around chair leg. Fall over when chair resists my attempt to take it with me. Knock privet hedge off table. Make a lot of noise. Slink out of cafe crimson faced, stuttering apologies.

Find office, still five minutes to spare. Sit down, exchange pleasantries with receptionist. Interviewer arrives. She was the woman standing in the coffee queue who sniggered loudest at my recent chair debacle. Perfect.

Temping termination

And so I wave goodbye to the job with the medical exam board. Its been a fun few weeks, but they call you a temp for a reason. And I'm swanning out the door after a few farewell glasses of white and with two snazzy laptop bags under my arm as a gift, so its not all bad!

Despite the work, which at times drove me almost off the deep end due to its tedious nature, I've achieved a fair amount. I have listened to the entire unabridged first 'Hunger Games' on audio book. All ten and a half hours of it. I have repeatedly heard all the music in my spotify collection so many times that I am now practically work perfect. 99 problems, Abba gold, Verdi, you name it, I can karaoke it (I'm not saying I can do it well!!)

In the few minutes when I wasn't grooving along to my headphones, I was eavesdropping shamelessly. I now know that 'The Adventures of Snuggle Pot and Cuddle Pie' is 'a very educational and charming' childrens book. Although with a name like that I feel that both those adjectives are probably open to individual opinion... The mothers in the office (pretty much everyone but me) then talked about the rise of 'adult' topics in kids books. I mean, some of them mention death! Yes, I thought, I remember learning about death, drinking, gambling etc from books - something has to prepare children for how to deal with their family... (only joking Mum...!) One of the mothers then chimed in 'well thats why we keep chickens. The children see them hatch, love them, then kill them and eat them for dinner'. Nice balanced parenting advice right there...

I'm not going to miss editing the exam papers, especially those in the Obstetrics & Gynaecology bracket. There is only a certain amount of times you can type the word gestation without going crazy and wanting to moo like a cow (am I the only person who connects that word with cows before anything else???) Although the whole office did enjoy giggling as I struggled to find the answers to label the cross sections of vaginas. Its nice to know that even 'real adults' still find this funny.

What else? I'll miss the jolly bus driver and his random upbeat greetings. And waiting for the man to get on by the tennis courts who has a face like a koala. Which could be taken as a compliment as it also means he must look like Dustin Hoffman - the holder of the most ultimate of koala faces. Or the woman who walks the two beagles and the pomeranian, where the beagles walk ahead looking embarrassed, and the white fluff ball prances along behind. Finally, I guess I will miss the road sign that I passed every day which proudly reads 'PERFECT CONDITIONS... for melanoma'. Ah. Great way to start the day. 

Bloc o'clock

Sitting on bus, panting slightly but rather overly proud of self for making it to last bus home with seconds to spare.

Amazing evening at the Hordern Pavilion watching bloc party (from England, as they were keen to emphasise). Took me back to being young, with unachey feet and enough sense not to bring a huge handbag to a gig. Ah, those were the days! A particularly awesome friend had scored me a free ticket. It was amazeballs, as the kids say these days...

The post-gig euphoria carried over to the trip home. The initial sprint for the bus back to the city was livened up by some hideous body art (who gets Corky the cat tattooed on their bicep???) and prime viewing of a guy getting a cavity search at Taylor sq while his female friend stood by and laughed. clearly the best kind of friend.

Jumping off at Elizabeth St with 5 minutes to spare I passed two Asian twenty somethings trying desperately to keep each other upright. Eventually giving up, they crawled into the nearest doorway, which happened to be a karaoke bar. Yes, that will help...

The last thing before I spotted the bus and started a headlong sprint (which naturally proved unnecessary, as things always do when you put that much effort in to them!), was two girls watching entranced as a fountain boasting a statue of a dog talked to them and then woofed goodbye. Which I think you will agree is a completely natural occurrence and definitely not some random hallucination.

In other block news, its the final week of my current fave Aussie programme, appropriately named 'the block'. Think grand designs slash changing rooms on a longer time frame. Its amazing and utterly addictive. Harri got to visit the set (or rather, the building site) the other day, and scored a signed cap which I was incredibly jealous of. Lesson of the week: if you are having a argument with an Australian, its best to emphasise this by calling your opponent 'mate' at every opportunity.

The bus journey is considerably improved by it being my favourite driver at the wheel. He's driven me to work every day for the last two weeks and a nice repartee has struck up. He is fantastic with the customers, knows the names of all the school kids travelling solo and checks on their sporting progress etc (this week we are disappointed that Carly didn't make the netball team). I was overjoyed the other day to see him presented with a box of chocolates by a man who proclaimed that it was the 10 year anniversary of him being his driver. It was genuinely touching yet utterly bewildering to a londoner. Ah Australia, you continue to surprise me

A working woman

So, back to work I went. The work wardrobe hasnt exactly changed - still a scary mix of weekend
wear and old school uniform helped along by asos. The elation at being back in an office, hearing the printers whir, phones ring, colleagues type!

Cut to two days in. Trying to look busy as I have already finished all the work allotted for today and its just getting round to lunch time. There are only so many times in the day you can request more work without looking like you are taking the piss. So I am making my own work - otherwise known as playing with the stamps on my desk  - God knows how I didnt realise that they print what is written on their lids - yes, I was wondering why that one read 'do not bend' when you would be hard pushed to manipulate such a solid object. My boredom would be rather evident to anyone wandering
past - as not only is the page now covered in 'do not bend' and 'air mail' stamps, but they have all had the d's, o's etc filled in with permanent marker.

But generally all is good - have my diet coke stash under the desk, cashew nuts in the draw and glossy mags surrepticiously hidden to be whipped out at lunch. However, I am still flinching everytime the phone rings and looking round to make sure someone else will answer it. Slightly
apprehensive of leaving at the end of the day as there is a huge cockroach guarding the hall, its hairy legs bristling with hostility.
 

Mardi Gras

The last week in Sydney has been rather depressing. A combination of job interviews, another move and hideous weather. The long awaited return to work was very welcome - but slipping in my sodden ballet pumps and falling over in the middle of the street was not. My ego, and other parts, were severely bruised.

But then the weekend hit. And Mardi Gras was here! And amazingly, the rain held off for a large part of the parade! The journey into the city from Lane Cove was filled with semi-naked 14 year olds dressed as rainbow fairies, firemen and corsetted policemen. They squawked and screamed and made extremely loud, rude observation about everyone else on the bus, before adopting a 50 something year old man and making him tell them all about his plans for the evening (going bowling with his girlfriend). He seemed rather chuffed by all the attention to be honest! I quaked in a corner behind Harri - groups of teenagers scare me.

Heading through Surry Hills in an attempt to lose the thickest crowds, we ended up on Flinders Street, and within half an hour had managed to muscle our way to the front, as those less enthusiastic members of the audience dropped out. On hearing that the girls next to me had been there since three to secure their position on the front line, I felt distinctly smug (we rocked up around 8). While we did unfortunately miss Dykes on Bikes, we were there for the Warriors of Love, the Catholic, Anglican and Jewish parades, the political affiliations, and many many more!

It was a truly fantastic evening - the atmosphere was buzzing and everyone was so incredibly friendly. I've never seen a parade quite so happy (and not even that drunk!). It certainly knocked Notting Hill into a cocked hat. And to my great delight, one of the Warriors of Love, having approached for a Happy Mardi Gras hug, and unfortunately tripped and fallen over onto me, then presented me with his Roman pink feather-crested helmet as an apology. As an avid hat collector, this was the perfect end to a wonderful evening.

 

 

Paddington pastimes

Sorry this blog has been so sporadic since my return to Sydney. To tell the truth, there just hasnt been that much interesting happening to write about. After staying a week in Lane Cove, we returned to the house in Paddington for another two weeks of catsitting Inky. Since then, we have settled into an uneasy regime.

You will notice the word 'we' appearing a lot here. Me and Harri have been thrown together, and have basically turned into an old married couple. Unable to afford a traditional night out, we have taken to inviting friends round for dinner in the hope that they bring wine and entertainment. It has been commented on by many of these friends that we have started finishing each others sentences, and making comments such as 'oh yes, WE loved that!' We drink tea and put our glasses on and read in bed and have developed habits of the 'honey, I'm home' kind. Its a bit sickening...

So, yes, at the moment, life goes: job hunt, flat hunt, watch movies (save money), walk in centennial park, pass out in front of fan afterwards.

After two consecutive evenings of watching her on screen (Hunger Games and then the Oscars), WE have both developed a huge girl crush on Jennifer Lawrence. She comes up in conversation at least 4 times a day. Often followed by some kind of abuse of Anne Hathaway.

Headed to coles for the weekly food shop this morning, stopping via the pet shop at Bondi which to our joy and disgust still contains tiny puppies and kittens in cages. Kelpie puppies priced at only $50, clearly so desperate for exercise that they are running round banging into their enclosures, as opposed to the drugged up kittens who woke up to be sick, lick lips, and then fall asleep again. Nice. It was heartbreaking to walk away from some of them. The Cavoodles, less so (part King Charles Cavalier, part poodle - not my fave...)

Poor Inky has been renamed Stinky due to his breath. We give him lots of love and affection and he repays it by starting to wash while sitting on your lap and almost causing you to pass out. While he doesnt seem to fond of his nickname, he isnt taking the hint either.

Its been a very buggy week. The other night, we were startled to see a huge cockroach walking across the ceiling. Talking about 3 inches long here. Too big. When pursued, it started to fly madly around the room. We were horrified, not having realised that flying was part of their creepy repertoire. On closer research (wikipedia) it was revealed that 'Australian cockroaches fly in hot weather'. Great. The next morning I came downstairs to walk straight through hundred of tiny spider webs. The wall was covered in tiny spiders. In the UK, I would label them as 'money spiders', harmless, sweet creatures that didnt merit squashing. However on closer observation, these tiny spiders were clearly huntsmen, and would grow from a few millimetres into monstrous palm-sized biting machines. Not good for sharing a house with. I unleashed a stream of insect spray onto them. To my intense discomfort, instead of dying quietly, thousands of the bloody things came streaming out from under the skirting board like some kind of post apocalyptic horror film. They swarmed towards my feet, as I let loose with the can of 'raid', screaming intermitently.

The joys of Australia. I miss home...!
 

Lazy and crazy

What am I doing? Hmm. In a nutshell, sitting around, vainly flipping through job seeker websites and wondering why the internet isnt recognising www.facemail.com

The cat has been following me ever since I had tuna salad for lunch, which isnt particularly flattering, and I'm watching reruns of Green Wing, and trying not to snort with laughter.

Oh and staring at a mindmap I made earlier (very Blue Peter) on hedge funds, which unfortunately I cant now read because my writing is so terrible.

A productive day then.

Money matters

Since returning to Sydney and a (more) normal life, money has become a serious preoccupation. My inbox is full of job applications made to gumtree for part-time work while I try and establish some kind of 'master plan' for the long term. Unfortunately, I appear to not be marketable, even to dishwashing and leafleting jobs. This is a bit of a slam... Although I'm sure past flatmates/family members would have some kind of joke to make about me not being particularly efficient in the dishwashing department...

One thing I have set up is an account with FineArtAmerica.com. Shameless self-marketing alert. Go ahead and check out some of my pictures at this address:

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/elizabeth-hardie.html

And please feel free to leave comments (well, only complementary ones...!) and pass on the address to any one you know who is particularly in the market for other people photos or original greetings cards. Yeah, I know, I'm already wondering whether these people actually exist. So go ahead y'all!

Flo's farewell

It was a sad evening when we all converged on the Glenmore hotel to wish a fond farewell to our Floriane. After weeks of backpacking together it just doesn't seem natural that she wont continue to be there every day! So we celebrated with some great food and lots of wine.

As the wine flowed, the conversation also edged away from the norm. The Sydney crowd wanted to hear all about our trip, which took things into the diving realm. As with most evenings, at some point, the conversation invariably deteriorated. The topic tonight for some reason settled on procreation underwater. It was acknowledged that ducks can only copulate in running streams. Some confusion was cast over fish and their reproductive cycle. These can be seen as a biological facts - anything David Attenborough might comment on cannot be labelled 'smutty'. However, I'm betting the great DA never uttered the immortal words "you cant have sex underwater - just think about coastal erosion..." Hmm. Right. Yeah.

We left fairly early to start our first trip back to our new abode in Lane Cove. At this point, the heavens opened. The combination of the rain and the darkness was too much for us. We completely missed our bus stop, and ended up walking for at least half an hour in the torrential downpour. If we hadn't had umbrellas, we would have been completely washed away. As it was, I nearly lost my shoes on several occasions when encountering a raging river when trying to cross the road. To my intense embarrassment, i awoke the next morning to discover that somewhere along this slippy and slidey route, I had put my hip out of joint. I am now walking very strangely and feeling intensely geriatric. Cheers Sydney - great to be back!

Stopover to Sydney

Despite having just spent three and a bit weeks on holiday, I still found it necessary to break up my trip back to Sydney from Brisbane with a weekend stopover in Hawks Nest. Some friends were all staying there and had offered to put me up (again!). When I get a job will definitely have to pay them all back for their never ending generosity! It was great to see Amanda and Kirk again - having seen them everyday for months, it felt like a long time apart (well, for me... probably not quite long enough for them yet...)

Having told the bus driver a sob story about having to hitchhike in order to get him to drop me before my specified dropoff point - I was slightly embarrassed to get caught out by Kirk arriving to pick me up just as the bus drew in. Busted. Ah well, no more greyhounds for me for a while! It had not been the best overnight journey. At every stop all the lights came on, and we stopped for 45 minute meal breaks at 2 and then 6 in the morning. Everyone else got off the bus at Bryon Bay, leaving me and one other guy as the sole passengers. To my horror, the guy came and sat directly behind me. Creepy. I put my seat right back, and after about 10 minutes of feigning a horrendous twitch (combined with snorty noises in the back of the throat) he got the message and moved away.

Entered the house to cries of 'get Beth in a shower, quick!' Great, my reputation as a backpacker had proceeded me... or had the heady aroma of feet, cocoa butter and bug spray crept into the house that quickly? Instead, I opted to head to the beach and throw myself into the ocean. It was beautifully cold and refreshing. More and more familiar faces appeared. Unfortunately, having said hello, most of them immediately looked disappointed and said "what? is Harri not with you?" Great for the ego. Note to self: never introduce your most awesome friends to anyone, as they will always be disappointed by your solo presence in the future.

Hawks Nest was all I remembered. Within a couple of hours had seen dolphins, pelicans, and these amazing white parrots with blue eyes that picked up pine kernels and threw them at me when I came too close with my camera. Headed to the pub in the evening to celebrate two peoples birthdays, but had to beat an early retreat when the live music started... The less said the better. We all converged on one of the many dwellings for rounds of the hat game and lots of wine (and aeroguard... not a great mix). To my delight, a possum came to see what all the fuss was about. I'd never seen one outside a zoo. No-one else could understand my excitement at seeing vermin close up...

The next morning, got up early to go to the surf beach for a rousing morning dip. The wind had got up, and the surf was pretty good. I was promptly submerged and dragged down the beach by an errant wave, managing to flash an elderly gentleman in the process. I wondered why he was waving and smiling at me...! Emerged bedraggled but thoroughly awake, covered in sand, and with enough water up my nose to provide hours of entertainment when it would suddenly spontaneously pour like a tap.

Moved on to the estuary after breakfast, before settling on Winda Woppa. Noticing activity amongst the boats we looked up to see a huge pod of dolphins right near the beach. Without a seconds thought, we plunged into the water and swam out to them. From about 25 metres away, we trod water and gazed at them as they glided past, the water parting over their shiny grey backs. It was an incredible moment, so peaceful, yet for us so charged with excitement! When they passed, we turned to head for the shore. Only to realise how far out we had come. Hawks Nest is unfortunately not only known for dolphins and whales, it is also a shark breeding ground. Great Whites come here throughout the year, while bull sharks and tiger sharks also treat the lagoon (which we were now floating in the middle of) as a nursery. The swim back was not relaxing. Every second I expected to see the tip of a fin. Every shadow under the water was coming to kill me. All in all, we got back to the shore feeling pretty stupid! Ah well, at least I had the tourist excuse - the Aussie's should definitely have known better!

Buoys put to a less functional use! Looked like something out of a childrens book!