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.