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.