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.