ficklish

Dancing Queen

2009-02-16T22:16:00.004Z

So, I’ve never been a dancer. Sure, I have been known to shake my not-inconsiderable arse in various adult establishments on occasion over the years, but ever in any kind of organised fashion. I was never an adorable three-year-old in a tutu, I never learned how to tap. I did do gymnastics in a fetching purple leotard, and my proudest achievement was winning the handstand competition on one memorable Saturday morning.

Given all this, I’m not entirely sure why it seemed like a good idea to sign up for a Bollywood dancing class.

I know when it happened. I was sitting in a restaurant in Brick Lane, having dinner with a jolly crew to farewell the wonderful MIA, who was on his way back to Merica. I was transfixed by the flatscreen TV in the corner, playing an endless loop of shiny happy Indian folks dancing about in an energetic and stylish manner. I thought to myself, ‘wow. That looks like fun.’

[It later became clear that I was coming down with a nasty bout of flu and was at that particular time suffering the effects of a highly elevated temperature].

Fever notwithstanding, the idea stuck and when I recovered I did a bit of googling. A suitable beginner’s workshop was found, and I rocked up to commence my experiment last Monday evening.

It was raining really hard. The venue took some finding, and I arrived bedraggled, clumsily juggling bag, scarf, iPod and glasses. This inability to coordinate my movements was to set the tone for the rest of the evening. I walked in the entrance and just past the desk was a scene just like every dance movie I’ve ever seen: a giant open room with wooden floors, mirrored walls and a large crowd of people moving in unison. Spooky, and intimidating as hell. It’s a cliché, but everyone there looked like they belonged: lithe, graceful and coordinated in a way that I know I am not. My gut went all clenchy with the nerves.

I sucked up all my courage and walked like I knew what I was doing up many flights of stairs to find the studio I was looking for, only to be told that the changing rooms were in the basement. Of course they were! I trudged all the way down again and enjoyed ten minutes of English Changing Room fun. Why, oh why, do they prance about in their underwear? I will never understand. One woman sat on a bench eating a muesli bar, watching the room, impassively surveying the nakedness as she waited for someone or something or I don’t know what. It was creepy. I scuttled out of there as fast as I could, wondering anew what the hell I was doing there.

As I stood outside the room waiting for the previous class to finish the nerves started to dissipate a little. The class was huge – a giant group of people bouncing about, having fun, making it look so very easy. I started to get a little bit excited. There was a tall, pasty white guy at the back grinning widely, flinging his windmill arms about madly, having the time of his life. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. When their class was finished and our group shuffled in, I was delighted to note that he was wearing thick dark braces with his acid wash black jeans. Spectacular!

As I took off my shoes I noticed that the room was, in fact, about half the size I had thought it was. Oh yes, that’s right. MIRRORS. If there’s one thing I loathe more than exercise it’s having to watch myself while I do it. This was not going to be pretty.

And so, the class began. It was a beginner’s lesson and there were only a handful of us and a perky instructor. She launched into some stretches, boppy ones done to blaring bhangra music. So far, so good. Then she showed us a few basic steps which formed the basis of the warmup routine. By the time the first song was over I was winded and sweating like a bastard.

The rest of the class consisted of learning chunks of choreography and then stringing them together to music. I found that I could kind of approximate the footwork, or the hand movements, but putting them together was chaos.

I had cleverly decided not to wear my glasses. As mentioned above, I tend to perspire somewhat profusely, and I figured that constantly pushing my spectacles up my face would make me look even more bumbling than I was. The advantage of this situation, though, was that I couldn’t make out the instructor’s face in the mirror very clearly. When she repeated instructions, ‘no, not like that! You’re not screwing in a lightbulb! Put your shoulder into it!’ I couldn’t tell if she was talking to me. She probably was. I’m really good at screwing in lightbulbs.

Some of the steps were tricky. She’d demonstrate, we’d follow along and repeat again and again until we mostly got the hang of it. There was one move that caused particular trouble. It was kind of a sliding step followed by sticking your butt out. “Shuffle, then hip”, she would call as we tried – and mostly failed - to copy her movements. “Shuffle, then hip.” This went on for some time until she stopped, a little exasperated, and said, "I’m obviously not explaining well. Let me see if I can make it clearer.'

[Thoughtful pause]

"It’s really kind of a shuffle, followed by a hip.”

I cracked up. Well, when you say it like that…!

Restraining the chuckles was a challenge throughout the class. I decided early on that I didn’t want to be playing the equivalent of hit-and-giggle pool – no-one likes that girl – and that I should try to demonstrate that I was taking it seriously. I really didn’t want to be ruining it for all the serious dancey-types around me.

I tried really hard. The more I stumbled, the harder it got to keep a straight face. When we strung the steps together, I’d keep up initially, then miss something (usually the shuffle/hip) and scramble to catch up, feeling more than a little ridiculous.

I had fun. I really, really sucked. Everyone else seemed to manage fine, obviously dance class veterans of long standing. Catching glimpses of my awkward, lumbering self in the mirror was unpleasant, so I kept my eyes on the instructor’s arse. The music was infectious. There were a couple of (very) brief moments where I got my hands and feet coordinated enough to actually enjoy the movement – actually dancing rather than concentrating on the pattern. I got sweaty, I jumped about. Then, when it was over, I emerged into the rain smiling and exhausted.

Snow!

2009-02-05T20:43:00.008Z

As you may have read there was some snow in London this week. Lots of snow! Okay, not that much snow by the standards of the rest of the wintry world, but the biggest snowfall here in two decades and a pretty big deal. It was spectacular.

It brought the city to its knees on Monday. There was no public transport, the business district was a ghost town. Most of my colleagues who depend on trains or buses to get to work were stranded, but I live so close to the office that I figured I had no excuse, so no snow day for me. Besides, I was keen to get out and see what it all looked like. It has only snowed a little bit on a couple of occasions since I’ve lived here and the novelty hasn't come close to wearing off. This was very exciting indeed.

The first thing I learned is that I really don’t have the right footwear for these conditions. I wrapped up as warm as I could, but shoes were a definite problem. I am, as you will be aware, really not an outdoor type and I don’t own hiking boots, or snow boots, or anything even remotely similar. I surveyed the options available in my cupboard and settled on knee socks with my trainers, rolling the cuffs of my trousers up so they wouldn’t get wet and securing them with clothespegs. I looked a treat, as you can imagine.

What is normally a half-hour walk took me over an hour – slipping and skidding my way across the icy paths with tiny little steps. I only fell on my arse once. It was tough going, but I couldn’t care – it was so beautiful! Grey, dirty London all sparkling and clean and draped with thick white blankets. Everyone out walking was in a festive mood – chatting and laughing with each other along the way. That never happens here, it was amazing. I saw a guy walking along with ski poles, everyone cheered as he went past.

Soft flakes fell constantly all day. The handful of my colleagues and I who made it into the office had a very good time – snowball fights at lunchtime, stomping about in snowdrifts like Godzilla, excellent fun.

We left the office early to try to get home before dark. I skidded my way towards home, and to my amazement happened upon a lone bus going in my direction. I waved at the driver, who stopped and let me on. I gushed my thanks effusively, it felt strange to be so grateful for something that happens on every other regular day. I smiled to myself as I then sat on the bus and heard every subsequent passenger do exactly the same thing, ‘Oh, THANK YOU! Thank you so much! This is brilliant!’, exclaiming their gratitude to the driver for saving them the long walk home. Best bus ride ever.

I know it was pathetic. We were the object of scorn from places like Moscow and Canada and I guess rightly so. But it was freaking brilliant, and I’m so glad I was here for it. As I got home to the Pickle, the guy at the wine shop downstairs was hanging outside his doorway, sprinkling table salt on the icy footpath so that customers wouldn’t slip coming into his shop. I have no idea what – if any – effect it would have had, but it was very charming and it made me smile.

I’ve been so inspired by the snow and my new-found love for stomping in it that I have invested in some genuine outdoor footwear: my first wellies! They are most excellent:

I ordered them online on Monday night and they arrived today. This photo is of me modelling them in the office. I wore them outside for a smoke break and stomped about gleefully in the last patches of melting slush. Now I'm checking the weather report obsessively, waiting for more snow to come along. I'm ready!

January: Hoxton

2009-01-31T22:49:00.003Z

Frankie and I have a project for 2009. Each month will have a theme, with corresponding activities, study and excursions planned accordingly throughout the year. The purpose is twofold: firstly, to mark the passage of time so that we don’t get to the end of another year gazing around in bewilderment, saying ‘hey! Where did that one go?’ The second goal is about experience: learning, doing things, going places we’ve never been. I’m going to record our progress here.

January is a tough month, both in terms of energy levels and finance, so we’ve started slowly. The focus this month was our local area: Hoxton.

We’ve lived at the Pickle, on Old Street, for two years now. We have plenty of favourite haunts that we visit regularly. There are plenty of gaps, though, and it’s about time they were filled in.

Hoxton/Shoreditch has a reputation as a too-cool-for-school, super-trendy area, full of bars and clubs and galleries, infested with hipsters. It’s noisy and crowded and as I lie in bed at night the drunken carousing of revellers floats through my window from the street below.

It hasn’t always been this way. Old Street, as the name suggests, has been around for a very long time. Hoxton was an industrial, poor area in the 19th century and has retained a gritty, dirty urban feel. Our balcony looks out over blackened rooftops. The northern part of the area is packed full of council housing, big grey ugly blocks of box-like flats crammed full of people.

As part of the January project, I read a book called Not Expecting Miracles, by Alice Linton. Published by a small local press, it is autobiography of a woman growing up in Hoxton in the early 20th century, telling stories about her poor, working class childhood in the years after WW1. It’s not great literature – she has the dry, no-nonsense voice of an old lady, recounting matter-of-fact memories of her parents struggling to survive, her brothers and sisters playing in the streets, making their own fun, enjoying occasional treats. It was nice to be able to walk a different way home from the bus stops and explore the streets mentioned in her story.

Frankie and I went to the Geffrye Museum one Saturday afternoon. Sir Robert Geffrye was a former Lord Mayor of London who built several almshouses in the area for the widows of former ironmongers, and the museum is housed in one of these buildings. It focuses on homes and furniture throughout the centuries, with each time period represented by a replica of a typical living room from that era. It was interesting to watch the evolution of function and style throughout history. The 21st century room contained lots of Ikea.

We spent an evening wandering around the area, having a pint in several of the bars and pubs that we had not yet visited. In the last pub, we made the acquaintance of a local who happens to be a guide with a London tour company. He was very good company and I’m hopeful he will be a useful resource for future explorations.

To round off the month, this afternoon I went to the White Cube gallery on Hoxton Square. The square is literally a block behind our house and there’s really no excuse for my not having visited the gallery before. I saw an exhibition called Texas Crude, a series of works by American artist Rosson Crow - giant, dark, dramatic paintings inspired by moments in history. I liked them a lot and would very gladly have one in my home, if, you know, the Pickle was about four times larger. Check out the link here – my favourite was ‘New York Stock Exchange After Bond Rally 1919’. The second exhibition was paintings and sculpture by German artist Andreas Golder. They were amazing and profoundly disturbing.

So, there you go. It wasn’t much – a book, a museum, a gallery, some minor exploration and a pub crawl – but better than nothing and very good fun. I’m looking forward to February already.

A Very jLo Christmas

2008-12-31T14:18:00.007Z

Here’s how to have a most excellent Christmas season, jLo style.

Step 1: Make yourself a Christmas tree outfit.

Apparently I have become something of a domestic goddess – since the mince pie endeavour chronicled in the last post, I have done MORE baking (okay, I made a cake) and then embarked upon a mission involving sewing!

I purchased myself a bright green dress, and then hand-sewed many shiny additions of the bauble and tinsel variety. A headband, a star ornament and some gaffer tape combined to make a quite striking headpiece. Adding in some brown tights (for the trunk) and some knee-high boots (for the pot), I was transformed into the most festive mascot you ever did see. There were even lights! Here is some photographic evidence (my friend Dr Evil is being the gift):

We had a Christmas party at the Pickle at which the tree outfit was a big hit. Frankie also dressed as an elf, with green tights and all – he would kill me if I put a photo of that on the Internet, but if you let me know I’ll send you the evidence privately (it was spectacular). My boss and my director were so taken by my costume that they insisted I wear it to the work Christmas party the following week. Despite some misgivings – did I really want to make that much of a spectacle of myself in front of all my colleagues? – of course I complied. The staff at my somewhat conservative workplace were a little stunned, but it certainly injected a little festive spirit into the proceedings. I met LOTS of new people, which will hopefully be helpful when work resumes in the new year. I introduced myself to a group of relatively sombre colleagues and chatted merrily with them for a few moments, and as I walked away one of them was heard to remark to her neighbour “that was the friendliest Christmas tree I’ve ever seen”. Result!

Step 2: Put yourself in charge of the department Christmas activity.

Tired of the boring lunches and realising that nights down the pub really aren’t that special when that’s what you do every week anyway, I devised the Most Awesome Team Christmas Activity Ever. Firstly, my entire department went to the Waldorf for champagne high tea, and spent a very happy afternoon cramming ourselves full of scones and cake. Mmmm, scones and cake in a fancy hotel. Then (and this was pure genius) we went to an evening concert of the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain!

You may recall that I first encountered the UOGB during my first year in the UK, and the memory of that incredible evening has remained with me ever since. They didn’t disappoint the second time around – performing some old favourites (Candy Says, the theme from Shaft, Miss Dynamite) and adding in some great Christmas songs. The highlights for me, though, were a version of Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights (with the audience shouting ‘Heathcliff!’ in every chorus) and an absolutely rocking ukulele interpretation of Smells Like Teen Spirit. It filled me with indescribable joy.

We were so inspired by the awesomeness of the ukuleles that after the big work Christmas party the following night a couple of colleagues and I went out to indulge our inner show ponies by singing karaoke until 4am. I performed my own version of Smells Like Teen Spirit, growling so energetically that I was literally without a voice for three days afterwards. Good times.

Step 3: Wrestle with an Aga.

A bunch of us rented a big old house in the countryside for Christmas week. It was lovely: the house was spacious and warm and had a fireplace, a piano, a Christmas tree, a ping pong table, lots of jigsaw puzzles and a bookshelf full of holiday reading. Perfect.

It also had an Aga. I’d read about such things in posh English countryside novels, but never really understood what it was. Turns out it’s giant oven that’s on all the time. Back in the day, these were used to heat the house, heat the water, and cook all the food. This house had central heating as well as a fireplace, so while the kitchen was toasty warm having the Aga on all the time seemed a bit of a waste of energy. The weird thing about it was that the temperatures are pre-set – there are two hotplates (with lids) on top, set to a high and low heat, and two oven cavities, one set to 160 degrees and the other to 220. Trying to cook a stirfry on the hotplate was amusing – not being able to adjust the temperature, you can only move the frypan off and on the plate as needed. Slow-cooking lamb shanks in the cooler of the two ovens for Christmas Eve dinner was much more successful. Deliciously successful.

The week was long and lazy – way too much food, way too much drinking, long walks in the countryside, lots of trashy novels. There was much Christmas merriment: a sound-activated Jingle Bird, many mince pies, lots of chocolate money and mulled wine. I discovered that apparently I love ping pong - who would have thought? We introduced our San Franciscan friend MIA to the honourable Australian tradition of a pantsing: any time anyone was beaten to love in a game they had to run around the table with their trousers around their knees. It was very cold but MIA threw himself into the cultural experience with admirable energy.

On Christmas Eve, we went into the tiny town square where a brass band was playing – we stood and sang Christmas carols with all the townsfolk. It was delightful.

The Secret Santa was a huge success, with an unexpected animal theme. Frankie’s gift was all about badgers, DJ Ill received several items relating to her new-found love of narwhals (based on this). I scored a stuffed koala that plays the Large Hadron Rap when you press his arm. He’s awesome – the wonderful MIA battled an epic hangover to go and make him for me at a build-a-bear workshop in Covent Garden, which delights me more than I can say. The bear’s name is King Hadron: Destroyer of Universes and I love him very much. I’ve never really had a teddy bear as a grown-up, but he’s so cuddly that I’ve been sleeping with him every night since Christmas. When I roll over in bed I accidentally set him off, and it’s very strange to be awoken by the disembodied voice of Stephen Hawking.

That is one of the more bizarre sentences I have ever written.

I hope you all had a very merry Christmas. Happy new year, and may there be many splendid adventures awaiting you in 2009.

Late edit: I now have a photo of King Hadron, and want to put it up here so you can witness his majesty:

Domestic goddess

2008-11-30T23:41:00.002Z

I have a cautionary tale to tell, of a woman who tried to fly too close to the sun. What do you get when you mix a cut-throat competitive streak with a good dash of obsessive-compulsiveness? Disaster.

One of my colleagues at work has organised a Mince Pie Competition to celebrate the festive season. Each member of the department has been allocated a date on which to bring in mince pies, which are then consumed and assessed by the rest of the staff according to taste, pastry, presentation and value for money.

Tomorrow is my day. I have spent more time than I care to admit thinking long and hard about my strategy. All participants so far have contributed store-bought pies, so baking them myself seemed a good way to grab an easy advantage in the moral highground department. Further, one of the women I work with is allergic to wheat – so I figured that if I could come up with a pie that she could eat (and therefore rate), I would automatically have access to more points than anyone else. Genius!

I neglected to consider a couple of key factors. Firstly, I don’t bake. Ever. I used to when I was a kid, but I can’t remember the last time I made a cake, let anything involving actual pastry. This should have been evident when I had to go shopping yesterday for every single implement I would need for this endeavour. I purchased many items of baking equipment that I have never owned before and am unlikely ever to use again. I did, you will be pleased to know, draw the line at a rolling pin – why on earth would I need one of those when we have so many perfectly serviceable empty wine bottles lying around?

Last night I chopped all the ingredients for the mince and left it overnight to soak up the brandy (mmm, brandy). The recipe I chose called for an apricot and hazelnut mince which sounded like a winner - friendly and familiar yet just fancy enough to be impressive. There was an incident involving orange zest at one point in which I grated a hefty chunk of thumb into the mixture – but thankfully it was retrieved in time and the mince was done. I made a practice batch of pastry, chilled it and made it into rough draft pies filled with ready-made mince from a jar. They turned out okay, so this morning I got started for real.

I don’t know whether you’ve ever worked with gluten-free flour before, but it is god-awful stuff. Dry and crumbly and with a very strange flavour. I have spent HOURS today trying to make the freaking things. Batch after batch of pastry, carefully rolled and cut and pressed the fiddly little fuckers gently into wee mini-muffin trays. It took forever. My feet and back are still aching from hunching over the bench all day. The pie shells done, I spooned in the stuffing, and topped each one with strips of pastry in the form of a cross (the bases took so long I couldn’t bear to make lids as well). They smelled good when they came out of the oven, and I eagerly tipped them out onto cooling racks and waited for the taste test.

And remembered why I don’t bake in the first place.

They’re AWFUL. The pastry is dry and crunchy, the mince tastes like cinnamony apricot gloop. All that effort, for nowt. Of course, I spent all last week loudly boasting about how my contribution was going to be home made, so now I have no choice but to take them in and make my workmates actually consume them. I’m horrified at the thought. Ambition goeth before a fall, it seems. Next year I’m definitely going straight to Waitrose.

Procrastination

2008-09-07T13:10:00.005+01:00

So, it’s Sunday and I have some work to do. That’s bad news, I know. It’s not bothering me too much, though – because I’m not actually doing the work. I made an executive decision not to go into the office (being at work on a Sunday? A bridge too far) and that I would write my briefing paper in my pyjamas at the dining room table.

Unsurprisingly, it hasn’t yet happened. My capacity for procrastination has expanded and refined since university. I now have tools at my disposal so spectacularly distracting that had they been in my life ten years ago, I would not have a degree today. Actually, it’s not that remarkable: so I’m watching TV on my laptop while surfing various interesting websites, no big deal, nothing out of the ordinary. Still, my paper is really not getting written.

Today I have spent way too much time trying to work out how to correctly pronounce the word ‘hadron’ so that I can talk about this at dinner tonight.

(It’s really nice of my friends to continue to be friends with me).

I’ve also been reading about the history of the Proms. DJ Ill and I went to a Prom last night, first time for both of us. It’s a long and well-loved tradition and has long been on my must-do list of quintessentially London activities.

They’re held at the Royal Albert Hall, another place I’d not yet visited. It’s big and round and beautifully ornate and it was all very exciting. The concert was lovely – the Royal Scottish National Orchestra playing Roussel, Thea Musgrave, Debussy, and Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 2 in C minor featuring this guy as a soloist.

The overall experience was just what I hoped for – excellent music in a beautiful setting, a crowd of prommers standing en masse in the middle of the floor and up in the gallery, soaking it up. No clapping between movements, strange chants at particular moments, everyone in high spirits, it was fabulous. That last link? Read it, seriously, it’s brilliant. Englishness at its absolute best:

"What you must never do is push in," says Trueman, a voluble twentysomething in thick glasses. "That's the sin against the Holy Spirit. That will not be forgiven. We queue.

Oh, yes you do. That whole article delights me more than I can say.

DJ Ill and I were a bit pathetic – unsure of how the whole Prom thing worked, I actually booked us seats a couple of weeks ago. While I was very happy to be able to sit in comfort and enjoy the music, I think I’m going to have to go back and try it the other way next year, to have a properly authentic Proms experience - taking my chances in the queue and frolicking with the hardcore.

Going to things like this is part of what I love most about living here. I’m reading this hilarious book at the moment, called - get this - London: The Novel and enjoying it immensely. It’s blockbusteriffic – certainly not the most literary of masterpieces, but a cracking read nonetheless. The historical content is woven into a saga-style story of several families - from Roman times to the present and all the eras in between. It’s helping to fuel the sense of delight that shivers through me as I walk through the streets of the city – knowing that this is where all kinds of fascinating things have been happening for centuries.

A friend and I went to the Tower the weekend before last – she hadn’t been for twenty years, I hadn’t been for ten. It’s been standing there for the better part of a thousand years, which is hard to wrap your head around. In the Jewel House, there are lots of sparkly shiny things that Kings and Queens have worn for centuries. I’m a Republican, for crying out loud. I don’t even believe in the monarchy. And yet, when I’m looking at the coronation spoon and hearing a helpful aide explain how it dates from the 12th century and is used to anoint each monarch with oil (which is concocted according to a special secret recipe known only to the Royal Chemist) after they’ve taken their oath, I can’t help but feel a little giddy.

There’s so much more that I haven’t even seen yet. I can’t wait to find out more. And who can think of writing a briefing paper when there are so many interesting things to read about?

Summer

2008-08-31T23:45:00.004+01:00

Everyone goes on holiday in August. It's a phenomenon, the whole city effectively shuts down.

I was told that as a result, August is a great time to get things done. It's quiet and you get a chance to catch up and get things ready for the autumn. I know now that everyone who told me that is a lying liar who lies all the time. It's been busy. I've been working a lot. I'm luckier than most in that I actually really like my job, but still - it's tiring to be there all the time. Also, there's a bar in the building which is really not very good for my liver.

(Incidentally, the event that I wrote about in my last post? Went very, very well).

So, it's boring, but that's mostly what I've been up to since last we spoke. There has been plenty of fun too, you will be pleased to know. In roughly chronological order, the highlights of July and August have included:

- Travelling to Reims for Madam Fox's birthday, where we explored the lovely town and the magnificent cathedral, ate excellent food and – most importantly – tasted lots of very delicious champagne.

- Eating dinner in the dark at Dans le Noir. It was quite a remarkable experience: imagine sitting in pitch darkness, having no idea who else is around you, identifying your friends by voice, hooking your finger over the edge of your wine glass as you pour so that you can tell when to stop. It was oppressive and freeing all at the same time.

- Enjoying visits from the lovely Marie and Mitchell and my brothers.

- Going to the Big Chill festival in Hereford, which was utterly fabulous and where I discovered that if Leonard Cohen was the leader of a cult, I would join it. Our new good friend Miles wrote a very good review of the weekend here.

- Singing my heart out at karaoke, seeing a student production of an absorbing and gruesome Greek tragedy; going to the Churchill Museum (again) and the Tower of London, celebrating the engagement of another good friend (is there something in the air at the moment?), and soaking up as much sunshine as possible.

Apparently I haven’t been spending all my time at work. That’s good to know.

Shiny New Suit

2008-07-02T06:54:00.003+01:00

So, for the last couple of months at work I’ve been busily planning a major event. It’s something fairly ambitious that the organisation has never done before, and rather alarmingly, has been mostly left up to me to arrange. It’s been an interesting process – difficult and frustrating most of the time, but I have learned a great deal and now the day is here. The champagne is ordered, the production company is briefed, a few hundred people have said they’ll attend. Everything is ready. I’m nervous, but it’s now mostly out of my control.

When I was in NYC last month I did a lot of shopping. One of my purchases was a swanky new suit. I've never owned anything quite like it, and I am very pleased with it. I haven't worn it yet - for one thing, my workplace is fairly business casual and so if I'd worn it on any old day people would have assumed I had a job interview. For another, it is so pretty I felt like it needed a suitably grand occasion. When I got it home I hung it in my wardrobe, thinking, “I know. I’ll save it for the reception. That can be its debut.” On the weekend I took a peek at it to make sure it didn’t need pressing. All was in order.

Or so I thought.

Last evening, I took it out of its bag and hung it on the outside of the wardrobe door, ready to try it on with different tops, to see which worked best. As I reached for the jacket, a fold of fabric fell open and my heart sank.

The security tag was still attached.

Oh, fuck. A giant chunk of plastic, affixed under the armpit of the jacket, hanging there like I’d shoplifted the damn thing. I sent some very uncharitable thoughts in the direction of that hapless shop assistant in New York, and then at myself for not checking earlier. Why didn’t I check? AARRRRGGGHHH!

What the hell was I going to do? Try and get another shop to take the tag off? They'll assume I stole it. Where is my receipt? I can go to a shop where they don't sell this designer. No, they'll just assume I stole it from somewhere else. Bugger! My first meeting was at 8:30am today, there wasn’t going to be time – which also meant I wasn’t going to be able to duck into anywhere to pick up something new.

[It’s probably important to note at this point that I threw out my old suit last month after a different event – tired of stapling the hems together and pretending that the jacket wasn’t almost worn through. Oh, how I longed for that old shabby suit at that moment. I would have given anything to see its friendly grey face. ]

When I caught myself wondering if I could get away with pretending I hadn't noticed it was there ("maybe if I just keep my arm jammed against my side like this..."), it was clear there was nothing else for it. I had to get the tag off. Here are the steps I took to address the situation:

1. Panic and swear. (done!)

2. Run for the toolkit. (I am a woman of the modern world, I own my own tool kit). I pulled out a screwdriver and tried to break the stupid thing by brute force. No luck.

3. I turned to Google. A quick search revealed a million stories just like my own. Responses to the plaintive cries for help included “don’t lie, you filthy shoplifter”; ‘be careful! Some of these tags have dye in them!”, “smash it with a hammer” and “try a magnet”.

The last option seemed the sanest. I then went to step 4.

4. Ask my flatmate for help.

Knock knock. “Frankie?” (Frankie had retired for the evening some time ago).

“Yes?”

“Um. Do you have a magnet?”

He came to his door. “What?”

I explained the situation.

Bless him, his first response was to ask if I had searched on the Internet (we are children of our age). When I explained the magnet suggestion, he informed me sadly that he did not have a magnet. Then his face brightened and he got excited.

“We could always try running a current through an insulated wire and…”

“Um, Frankie? That doesn’t really sound like a good idea.”

“No, I guess not. Well, let’s have a go at this then.”

Frankie assessed the situation thoughtfully. He carefully slid his library card under the tag, to protect the fabric, then took the screwdriver and started to prise around the edges of the tag. For a while, nothing happened. The tension grew. I started to panic all over again.

Then, there was some movement. As I held the jacket and braced my hand against the long part of the tag, he gently levered the pieces apart.

“What’s that cracking sound?”

“Maybe that’s the plastic giving way?”

“Actually, I think that’s my library card.”

He was right. I hope the Borough of Hackney doesn’t fine him for a new one.

He did it, you know. Frankie totally saved the day. The pin holding the two pieces together gradually became visible and he was able to reach for the pliers and pull the tag off. You couldn’t see so much as a pinhole in the fabric where the tag had been. He was brilliant. I'm going to start a criminal syndicate so that he can be the CEO.

Everyone needs a flatmate like Frankie. Now if that’s the only thing that goes wrong with this event, I’m going to be a VERY happy person this time tomorrow.

Things I Have Learned Recently

2008-06-30T21:36:00.002+01:00

New York, New York is a wonderful town.

There are few things more entertaining than sweeping dramatically into a room full of your friends and uttering the following words: "I have taken a lover."

When summer actually arrives in London, the days are so delightful that you don’t even mind the hayfever.

No matter how fascinating you are finding that Feynman biography, it is possible to bore people to actual tears if you talk about it too much.

Buying AstroTurf on eBay is really fun. Receiving said AstroTurf and laying it out in sheets all over your living room is even more fun, though it does make sitting on the couch a more itchy experience than usual.

Drinking with colleagues is fraught with the danger of extreme mortification; unless you get lucky and the person in question remembers even less of the evening than you do.

Sometimes wonderful things happen to truly deserving, lovely people.

It is possible to be so tired when you come home from work that you give serious consideration to having a big spoonful of cream cheese for dinner.

Freak

2008-05-16T01:44:00.006+01:00

(Or: 'Why Yes, I'm Still Single. Why Do You Ask?')

I’m a lurker. I derive many hours of enjoyment from the toil of others on the interweb without offering them anything in return. No thanks, no responses, no input – I simply read their words, nod to myself, and move along. I get so excited whenever anyone is kind enough to leave a comment on this blog and, I confess, a wee bit despondent when there are none, but I know I’ve no-one to blame but myself. If I was out there, putting in my two cents’ worth on other people’s pages, karma would reward me with feedback of my own.

All of this is a roundabout way of saying that I broke my lurkdom tonight for a meme. Madam Fox was chiding me gently earlier this evening about updating my blog, but I couldn’t think of anything to write about that would be sufficiently interesting. “Hi everyone, I’m happy and well but am really insanely busy at work at the moment and too brain-dead the rest of the time to string a sentence together.” “Great entry, jLo! Please, can we have some more of your amazing insight and hilarious perspective on this crazy, beautiful, mixed-up world of ours?” I think not.

Then I flicked through my blog feeds (85 at last count, I’m telling you, I’m a PROLIFIC lurker), and came across this entry by an Australian writer who goes by the name Ova Girl. I won’t go into how I found her blog in the first place (it’s a long and not particularly interesting story) but she’s a great writer and so I’ve been reading her site for a couple of years now. I’ve enjoyed her writing immensely but have never told her so.

What prompted me to respond this evening was the ‘TAKE PITY ON ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD’ message to lurkers at the end of the piece. I thought, well, I need a blog entry, and she’s pretty much talking directly to me there. It’s like it was a SIGN. No excuses!

So I left a comment, and now I’m answering the meme.

Six Quirky Things About Me

The first thing I’ll say about this topic is that the word ‘quirky’ makes me feel self-conscious, like by describing some of my idiosyncracies I’m secretly telling you about how awesome I think I am. Oh my god, I’m so QUIRKY! Aren’t I ADORABLE?*

So, instead, I’m going to offer six signature jLo traits that are really just those things that appal, bewilder and/or annoy the crap out of everyone I meet.

* Please note, I think OG’s entry manages to avoid this entirely, I’m referring purely to my own reaction to the word.

Six Signature jLo Traits That Are Really Not At All Original Nor Unique but Definitely Appal, Bewilder And/Or Annoy the Crap Out Of Everyone I Meet.

1. Talking Between The Lines

(I have J,The to thank for this one, I had never noticed it myself until she helpfully pointed it out. I should add that she has had to do so on more than one occasion.)

I love roadtrips, and my favourite thing about roadtrips is the singing. A carefully constructed mix-CD of cheesy classics, the open highway, and a water bottle for a microphone and I’m as happy as it is possible to be. I sing very loudly and with great fervour.

I am also an enthusiastic conversationalist on occasion, as you may or may not have noticed. Road trips are an ideal opportunity for long-ranging discussions of topics both meaningful and shallow, and I enjoy both types and all those along the spectrum in between. You would think that this love for the chatter would interfere with the singalong. You would be wrong.

I was unaware until J,The brought it to my attention that I apparently undertake both activities at the same time without realising that this is what I am doing. I will carry on a conversation while the song is playing – but I will only offer my contribution in between the lyrics of the song. An illustration:

jLo and J,The On A Road Trip

J,The: The thing is, jLo, is that you overestimate the ability of conservative fiscal policy to significantly impact upon the well-being of truly endangered species such as the four-horned muskrat.”

[NB: It should be noted here that J,The would never utter such a sentence. For one thing, she would not have split that infinitive there].

jLo: Oh, the flaaaame treeeees will bliiiind a weeeeary driiiiver. “Well, since you mention it, I really do think that honeycomb and polka dots are the answer”. And theeeere’s nothing eeelse could set fiiire to this tooooown.

J,The: You’re doing it again.

2. Hypocritical Consumerism

A lot of my clothes are falling apart, I wear shoes of indifferent quality on a regular basis. I am not a great shopper, and the urge to visit Oxford Street visits me very, very rarely (given that it is the Mouth of Hell, this is actually a bonus). Most advertising bewilders me until I remember that I am (usually) not their target audience and therefore it makes sense that I don’t understand the message. I am mostly an indifferent consumer and (aside from the essentials of life, like a good computer and lots of books) don’t tend to buy a lot of things.

EXCEPT. I have an alarmingly extensive collection of the most horrifically cheesy, tacky and pointless decorative objects and souvenirs. I cannot resist the crap, I am helpless before its powers.

From where I’m sitting here on my bed, I can see on the top shelf of my bookcase a colourful seashell-mounted saint figurine that was the God of the Boat on our sailing trip in Croatia last year. There is a small gold pillbox in my handbag with a wee enamel inset on the lid depicting a cheery seaside scene and the words ‘Westward Ho!”. I keep my mints in it and enjoy watching people recoil at the ugliness when I offer them one. We have a unicorn hobby-horse in our lounge room that makes gallopy noises when you press its ear. Our dining table at the Pickle is less than a metre wide and yet I bought a cheap Ikea lazy susan for it which kept me entertained for many months (Frankie, would you like the salt? Here it comes!) until it fell apart and I am ashamed to confess that I shed actual tears as I threw it away.

Some of you have been kind enough to present me with gifts that fit into the ‘craptastic’ category, all of which bring me great joy but leave me no choice but to call you ENABLERS. You’re my friends, you’re supposed to make sure I have good taste and that I stop wasting my money on crap instead of feeding my obsession. Thanks a lot, you guys.

3. Freakish Memory

I have quite a good memory. It’s often a good thing: what academic success I managed to attain at school can be attributed directly to an ability to memorise vast quantities of information for exams. Recalling random facts is very helpful at quiz nights. I also like being able to remember people’s names and faces when meeting them for a second time.

What is less useful is the fact that I tend to hold onto random details about people - the things they say and the stories they tell me - much longer than I need to. In my experience, people find it somewhat unnerving when you meet them at a party and greet them with something like, ‘Oh, hi, Fred! Great to see you again! Wow, was it really a year ago that we met? That’s right, it was at Susie’s party, out on the balcony. You stole my beer and then we discussed utilitarianism and whether or not there is such a thing as Jewish porn. How’s your dad, by the way? I seem to remember he’d just had an operation when last we spoke.” Freak.

Thankfully, this particular trait is fading with age, it’s not quite such a problem as it once was. For one thing, I don’t retain as much of the minute detail as I used to. For another, when I do, I’m much better at keeping the knowledge of this to myself. However, my tendency to freak people out in this manner does rear its head at highly inconvenient moments.

An example: there’s this guy at my work who is really quite devastatingly attractive. I have harboured a helpless girly crush on him for six months now, and (as is the nature of such things) find new and improved ways to humiliate myself in his presence with each passing week. Just yesterday, I met him outside in the place we both go to smoke, and he complimented my shoes. Instead of thanking him and moving on with great composure and elegance to a suitably sophisticated topic of conversation, (all the better to showcase my blinding intellect and biting wit) I said the following:

‘Oh, you’ve seen these before! Remember when you were sitting out on that bench last year and I came to join you and my heels sank all the way into the grass and I got stuck and kind of fell over and you laughed at me?’

That there is a verbatim transcript, my friends. The stricken, fearful look on his (really very beautiful) face will haunt my dreams.

Moving right along…

4. Cold Leftovers

I know everyone agrees that cold leftover pizza is one of life’s greatest joys. I , however, enjoy ALL of my leftovers cold.

We don’t have a microwave at the Pickle, nor is there one at my place of work. Even if there was one in either place, however, I would very rarely use it and never to reheat leftovers. Pasta dishes, stirfries, mashed potato, rice – all of it is just as good, if not better, the next day. In fact, I usually cook more than I need to for each meal so that I can make sure there will be plenty of leftover goodness.

My workmates are frequently heard to say such things as ‘SOUP? You can’t possibly be eating cold soup for lunch?!’ To which I inevitably reply, ‘Not only am I doing just that, but it is very good. Would you like some?’ And then they slink away in fear. Especially if I add, ‘Come on, try some! You told me once that you loved spinach and garlic! Remember? That day I twisted my ankle and you were wearing your red scarf for the first time? Are you sure you don’t want some? What? Why are you looking at me like that?’ And so on.

5. The Perfect Bite

Whatever I’m eating, be it cold soup or an ice-cream cone or frozen peas (quirk #7! It didn’t make the cut!), I always have to save the best for last. I’m sure there is some deep-seated reason for this that relates to impossible expectations and delayed gratification or whatever, but the fact remains that I am absolutely compelled to finish every meal or snack with The Perfect Bite.

The Perfect Bite does exactly what it says on the tin. It is a perfectly calibrated combination of each of the ingredients/components of the dish, to ensure that the memory of the just-finished meal is preserved in that final moment. I will save small portions of each component as I eat for the Perfect Bite, and have had to learn over the years to guard particularly tasty morsels from the wandering forks of scavenging opportunists, also known as brothers.

My greatest Perfect Bite achievement occurred last year at a Wine and Cheese night at the Loft. Every attendee brought a different type of cheese, and given we had some giant water crackers handy it seemed appropriate to load one up with a small piece of each individual cheese. The result resembled one of those comedy sub sandwiches you see in cartoons – a towering pile of cheesy wonder atop a giant flaky biscuit. The photographs of my (really very unladylike) efforts to shove as much of the tower into my gob really have to be seen to be believed. The worst part is that I mostly succeeded.

6. Watching the Credits

I am unable to walk out of a movie until the credits have finished. It annoys the crap out of anyone who has to push past me to get out of the theatre, but I can’t bring myself to abandon this particular practice. The official (and utterly obnoxious) reason is that it’s an homage – I want to pay my respects to all the people who worked so hard to entertain me for two hours by reading their names. Mostly though, I want to (a) look through the names and see if there are any funny ones, (b) listen to the end-credits music, (c) have a few moments to myself to prepare my remarks about the movie so that I sound smart and/or funny and (d) feel secretly superior to all those who walked out because they were DISrespectful to the crew and cast.

I’m really not a very nice person, you know. I’ve got you all fooled but GOOD.

Anyway, so that’s the list for now. What have I forgotten?

(No seriously, tell me some others! What strange things do I do?)

Any of you would like to pick up this wee meme and run with it, please do, and let me know so I can come and read it and feel better ‘cos maybe I’m not as weird as YOU.

(Unlikely!)

The Wedding Story

2008-04-22T23:16:00.005+01:00

Once upon a time, a member of my immediate family announced the delightful news that she was engaged to her long-term partner, and they would be married in early March 2008 at a resort on the Sunshine Coast. The timing coincided neatly with my birthday and so my trip home (and the Festival celebrations) was planned so that I would be there for the happy event.

This wedding was special – not just because I was so particularly pleased for the couple in question, though that is certainly true – but because it gave me what will henceforth be known as the Most Dramatic Wedding Story Ever.

The story begins with Giant Hair. I’m not sure what it is about hairdressers, but every time I have my hair professionally blown dry, I end up several inches taller than I was before. The bride, E, had very kindly offered my mother and I the chance to have our hair and makeup done by the team of professional stylists she had engaged to come along to the resort to beautify the wedding party.

Mum and I rocked up to the bridal suite bright and early on the morning of the wedding. I’d been off playing a game of tennis with my brothers and wee nephew beforehand (am so sporty! Check me out!). While I had showered, I was still more than a bit bedraggled and the kindly hairdresser had quite a job on her hands to make me presentable.

Giant Hair was obviously the solution. Mum’s hair was finished before mine, and I swear that I have never laughed so hard at a hairdo in my life. It was positively Dynastyesque. She had a chance to return the favour soon afterwards as my finished ‘do also soared towards the heavens, much to the delight of the assembled crowd. We all bonded nicely over the Biggest Hair of All Time as we lounged about in the suite, chuckling and drinking coffee and having ourselves a lovely time as we watched E's gradual brideification. She was nervous, but happy, and we teased her good-naturedly and offered compliments and encouragement as hundreds of hairpins were pushed directly into her skull. It was about 10:30am, the wedding was scheduled for 3pm. Everything was going perfectly to plan.

All of a sudden, the happy, relaxed vibe was interrupted by a very loud noise coming from the master bedroom of the suite. It sounded like pressurised air, or as if someone had turned the shower on full power: FSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH. Really, REALLY loud.

The dryers went off, the chatter ceased. We looked about at each other in puzzlement. Whatever could it be? One of the bridesmaids got up and trotted over towards the bedroom. She looked inside, and started screaming.

OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD

We ran over to join her. I swear to God, I have never seen anything like it before in my life. Black, foul-smelling water gushing everywhere, like a real-life special effect. Spurting fountains of filth, flooding the room at high pressure, streaming all over the bed, the floor, the walls, the suitcases. Everything.

The wedding dress was hanging in the middle of the room.

The bridesmaids ran into the geyser to grab the dress. As we stood in the hall, they carried it out, stinking and black and absolutely, utterly ruined.

Dumbstruck astonishment passed to panic in an instant. The fire alarms had gone off, and a recorded loudspeaker voice told us to evacuate. The bride was hyperventilating with distress, barely conscious from the shock. As we carried her down the fire escape, I remember thinking, ‘well, that’s it. If the hotel is on fire there can’t be a wedding’.

We got her down eight flights of stairs and out into the grounds of the hotel as the fire trucks pulled up. Bedlam descended, and the next half-hour was a blur of shouting and running about and everyone trying to work out what the fuck was going on.

As it turned out, there was no fire. The sprinklers had gone off in that one room only. A freak accident, that’s it. The water had been sitting in those pipes for decades, becoming rotten and foul - and then one single malfunction sent it spraying across the room at high pressure.

We took E. upstairs to our suite, and tried to calm her down. Kloss and the Father of the Bride (FOTB, aka my awesome stepdad) piled into a car and drove the stinking dress to the nearest town to a drycleaner. The cleaner took one look at the dress and told them that if they had 48 hours, maybe they could soak the fabric and revive it. Four hours? Not a chance.

After frenzied phone calls back and forth, the bride and bridesmaids were bundled into another car to go and meet Kloss and FOTB at a bridal shop. Kloss said later that when they swept into the shop, holding aloft the black, dead, dress, all the brides-to-be shopping with their mothers stopped and stared, hushed and shocked. He said you could see their faces fall and whiten as they thought: ‘Oh, god. That can happen?’

The people at the bridal shop were amazing. They cleared the place out, and brought out all the dresses they had in E’s size. As she tried them on, they got their seamstress to come in. She picked a dress, they fitted it and made speedy alterations, pressed and wrapped it and sent her back to the hotel. All in under three hours. The makeup artists made a second call, coming back just as we got E into the new dress, just in time for photographs.

The ceremony was only delayed by 15 minutes.

It was incredible! The most remarkable wedding-day disaster, completely solved and overcome in the space of an afternoon - from panic and mayhem to smiling guests in their finery on a beautiful sunny day. What made it all the more brilliant was that any conceivable nervousness or tension had all completely dissipated and everyone was in the most amazing good mood for the entire night. Once a crisis of that magnitude had been suffered and resolved, everything was guaranteed to be perfect.

And it was! The ceremony was lovely, the party a blast. The bride and groom were in excellent spirits (the half a Valium might have helped, man, it’s so good to have a nurse for a mother!) and the bride was breathtakingly beautiful. A fabulous time was had by all.

And here are some pictures to prove it. Firstly, here’s Mum and FOTB. Please note, the hair remained enormous:

And here are my brothers (again):

And here is the happy couple, making it official:

Craziest wedding day ever. Thankfully, they all lived happily ever after.

Festival Pictures

2008-04-19T20:04:00.016+01:00

So, in the interests of recording the Festival for posterity, I thought I'd throw a few ridiculous photographs of myself (and some others, apologies in advance) up here.

The Festival kickoff was at a lovely restaurant across the road from the Pickle. I managed to achieve a life-long dream at this dinner by getting to behave in the manner of a game show winner:

The blurriness really gives you a sense of the excitement!

I flew to Oz the next day, and soon after arriving I Officially Turned 30. Here is what I looked like on my 30th birthday:

That's Kapitan Kloss and TPC with me, they are not yet 30. Their time will come.

Here we are at a delightful family dinner hosted by my grandfather:

You'd never guess we were related. Matching chins!

The Kapitan was kind enough to throw me a birthday party the following evening (thanks, Kloss!). I drank many cocktails with lychee liqueur in them. Mmm, lychee liqueur. Once said cocktails had done their work, I insisted that we sing The Gambler:

It was important that everyone sang standing up.

The rest of my trip was utterly delightful, and included a road trip with J,The. Here is a photo of the road trip IN ACTION:

And here we are at Marulan, the Best Truck Stop In All The World:

It really is the Best Truck Stop In All The World. If you think you have one to beat it, please let me know and I will then explain to you the many ways in which you are very wrong.

While spring has (kinda sorta) arrived in London, it's still a long way from sunny here. So to drive myself crazy with the longing, here is a shot of me at Bondi:

How very pasty I have become.

The time then came to return to London. My sadness at leaving Oz was abated somewhat by a fabulous party at the Pickle the weekend after my return. My most excellent flatmate, Frankie (whoops, RVW), made me a birthday cake in the shape of a pickle:

The face was especially delicious.

And with that, we come to the Grand Finale of the Festival of jLo 2008: Westward Ho! The trip of a lifetime! I was so excited I decided to wear my best dressing gown all the way there:

This was taken in Weston-super-Mare. WHAT A TOWN.

I loved everything about Westward Ho!, but mostly the exclamation mark. It was displayed prominently in a number of places, much to my delight:

If you look closely, you will note that each of us is actually shouting 'HO!' as this picture was taken. Wouldn't you?

Our long weekend was full of rambling around the countryside, eating cream teas and sampling the local ales. We did so much of that last one that DJ Ill and I had trouble doing a simple high five:

Sadly, even the best weekends must come to an end. When we got back to London, there was snow:

What a dressing gown! What a Festival. My computer is slow these days, and this post has taken an entire large glass of wine to finish. I hope you are all having a lovely weekend.

Festival of jLo 2008

2008-03-30T23:57:00.002+01:00

I’m having causation vs. correlation issues again: we put our clocks forward this morning, and nature responded swiftly by giving us a sunny, warm, absolutely-no-doubt-about-it beautiful spring day. I wore sunglasses! And summer shoes! With no socks or tights or other foot-warming accessories that were essential until today. This time last week, it was snowing on our balcony. Tonight we had the first barbecue of the season at the Loft, and sat in the fading sunlight with fruity cocktails, toasting the advent of spring.

It feels like a new beginning kind of time – the Festival of jLo concluded last weekend, and the time has come for regular life to resume. I highly recommend the international festival approach to birthday celebrations. Two countries, six towns, visits and parties and pub sessions and and road trips – it was freaking brilliant. I’m exhausted, but very happy.

Those first few days that I gushed about in my last post set the tone for the remainder of my holiday in Oz. The weather was perfect every single day. The coffee continued to be uniformly excellent (such that it seems that I won't ever be able to shut up about it). I caught up with my family in Brisbane and my lovely wee brothers threw me an excellent birthday party in their amazing flat overlooking the river and the Story Bridge. The family wedding we attended the following weekend was very eventful (I’ll tell that story next) but ultimately a blast. Sydney was great fun, too – I swam in the ocean at Bondi numerous times and had a fantastic road trip to Our Nation’s Capital to hang out with the good folks who live there. Singing with J,The at the top of our lungs as we drove along the highway felt utterly perfect.

Sunshine and good times and lovely, lovely friends – the trip was just what I wanted. It was really hard to wrench myself away and leave all over again.

But then the Londoners did their part, reminding me what a fabulous life I have here with such excellent folks. We had a Pickle party that exceeded all expectations, and then for the Easter weekend a bunch of us bundled into a van and drove our way across the country to a charming wee cottage in a town on the Devon coast called – get this – Westward Ho! [The exclamation mark is officially part of the name of the town, and (as you would expect) is the primary reason we chose that particular destination.] It was just as delightful as I had hoped. We had fish and chips and Devonshire tea and drank local ale and rambled around the countryside looking at sheep. It was tops and I’ll be sure to post some pictures soon.

So, more than a month after it began, the Festival of jLo 2008 came to a close. I feel pretty damn good about being 30, and the Festival helped me see exactly why: I’m very, very lucky to be healthy and happy and to have a whole world full of remarkable friends. Life is good.

[Also: at my party in Brisbane, 21-year-old cousin of mine told me I was ‘glamorous’, which pleased me greatly – I have been waiting for quite some time to be in a position to be able to hoodwink people so effectively. ]

Thank you to all of you for making the Festival such an amazing time. Thank you also for your astounding (and humbling) birthday generosity. You rock my world.

Milestone

2008-02-27T06:32:00.001Z

I had a hot, strong flat white at Melbourne airport this morning. Flame Trees was playing in the café and I couldn’t stop myself from singing along as I waited for my flight.

Then we took off and I scribbled away happily as I sat and watched the muted olive, grey and brown patchwork of the landscape stretch out below me, with the clouds shining in the bright sun.

It’s really good to be home.

My four days in Melbourne were utterly wonderful. I love that town. The weather was wonderful – breezy and sunny and hot. The coffees were uniformly excellent.

I watched the sun go down on the balcony at the Espy, with jugs of cold beer. I ate a perfect steak, organic salads, gluten-free cakes and the ubiquitous chicken parma. I shopped all over town and bought three pairs of fabulous shoes. I spent long, lazy hours in the company of my favourite people in the world.

Yesterday, I drank champagne on the banks of the Yarra with Nat and Greenie, and we all marvelled at how good it felt to be in Melbourne, having come from so far away. There’s something that feels a little dangerous about that town – it is so good that it makes me question my desire to be elsewhere in a way that no other city can. I know I could be happy there.

This afternoon I’m sitting with my brothers on their balcony in the sun, looking over the Story Bridge, catching up on our lives and hurting from the laughing.

This is my 100th post on this blog.

It’s my 30th birthday.

I’m having an excellent time.

Super Tuesday

2008-02-04T22:58:00.000Z

Guess what? I get to vote in the US Presidential election primary tomorrow. There are a number of things that are remarkable about this, and not just because I am a giant nerd. Okay, mostly because I am a giant nerd. Anyway.

Firstly, that I get to participate at all is really quite amazing. As some of you know, due to a mix of peculiar circumstance and surprisingly broad citizenship laws, I am an American citizen. My parents were working in the US in the late 70s, and I happened to be born while they were there. Unlike the UK and Australia, the USA automatically confers citizenship to those born on its soil, the fact of which I was unaware until a few years ago when a routine visa enquiry turned into a surreal interview at the US Consulate (which featured detailed scrutiny of my baby photos) and then a shiny new passport with an eagle on the front.

Given that I do not identify in any way as an American, my newly-discovered status was of little relevance to my life for some time – other than as an amusing story down the pub. Then in 2004, I realised the full scope of the opportunity that had been presented to me: I could vote. What’s more, I had the chance to vote against John Howard and George Bush in the same year! This pleased me no end, futile though it turned out to be.

Almost four years later, one of them is gone and the other is on his way. All of a sudden, anything seems possible.

I do have some misgivings about participating in an electoral process for a government that is not my own. However, as has been pointed out to me on numerous occasions of late, the results of the US Presidential election affect us all in some way. Mine can be the ‘Rest of the World’ vote. I’m doing it for all of us.

The second noteworthy point is that this is no ordinary absentee ballot. I am registered to vote in the 2008 Global Presidential Primary. The Democratic Party actually allocate Convention delegates to represent the six million US citizens that live in more than 100 countries around the world. I find it intriguing that the diaspora is considered as a distinct group of voters and a mechanism is provided for them to participate in the democratic process accordingly. Actual recognition of an electorate without borders!

The Republican party do not have separate delegates allocated to overseas voters, requiring instead that each individual vote by absentee ballot in their home state.

If you’d like to read further about this, AB wrote an interesting piece a few weeks ago that is worth checking out.

Finally, the other cool thing about tomorrow’s primary is that I can vote via the interwebs. They are doing some in-person and mail voting here in the UK, but I am delighted at the prospect of casting a vote online. They’ve emailed me a login and password, and as of 1pm UK time tomorrow, I can get some hot electoral action, 21st century style. I’m hoping like hell that there aren’t any pesky hackers out there who are going to try to undermine my vote. Please note that I do not consider all hackers to be of the 'pesky' variety. I happen to know at least one who is a lovely human being, and not pesky in any way. I am referring only to those who might be tempted to break into the voting site. Please stay away, Pesky Hackers! Thank you.

As for who I’m going to vote for, well, let’s just say that the temptation to try and match a PM called Kevin with a President called Barry is just too much to resist.

Under the wire

2008-01-31T23:25:00.000Z

I am an odd creature, as many of you are more than aware. I am apparently able to blithely ignore this page for weeks at a time, but then something utterly random prompts me to post. Please don't get too excited, I don't have a funny story to tell or a point to make. No! What has got me typing furiously at 11:30pm on a Thursday evening is the thought that if I don't get something in by midnight, this will be the first month since I started this blog where I don't have any posts at all.

Yes, it's true. I'm posting to protect my post-in-every-calendar-month record. That's it. I suspect you are watching a ceremonial scraping of the very bottom of the blog barrel, right here. I couldn't be more proud.

I wrote last year about how much January sucks. I've noted that Her Excellency The Jackles has posted on the very topic today (you go, the Jackles!). This year hasn't been too bad - but that grey, broke, blah January feeling has definitely been present. And we haven't even had any snow this year, boo.

I have been really busy at work. My new job is not quite so new anymore, and I'm still enjoying it, but it has been full on and exhausting these last few weeks. Most of the time I feel like the professional facade has worn very thin and my true incompetence is only barely concealed. But then, I had an appraisal meeting last Friday where my boss took all of fifteen seconds to tick each criteria 'Excellent' and then we got on with talking about one of my projects. I've got him fooled, at least. It's a good job, and I'm glad to have it - it makes such a difference to be motivated and engaged in what I'm doing. When I think about how bored and desperate I felt three months ago, I don't feel so bad about the long days.

It is three weeks today until I jump aboard a giant flying tin can and head HOME, which is more exciting than I can possibly say. For your reference, here is my rough itinerary:

22 Feb - 27 Feb: Melbourne
27 Feb - 5 March: Brisbane
5 March - 9 March: Sydney (+ Canberra)

So I hope to be able to have a shandy with you very soon. Hooray for that! For now, it is 11:55pm and it is TIME TO POST! Phew.

Happy New Year!

2007-12-31T16:51:00.000Z

Happy new year, everybody! It’s weird – I know all my folks at home are already in 2008, while I’ve still got a few hours left with 2007. I am writing to you FROM THE PAST. I hope your celebrations were jolly.

The holidays have been lovely – I have somehow managed to consume five roast dinners in the last eight days, which is an excellent indication of my commitment to the concept of Christmas decadence. I spent Christmas Day with friends, and there was chocolate money, mulled wine, remote control helicopters and much merriment. There was also a giant ham (and I’m not just referring to myself). Secret Santa brought me an awesome giant wooden spoon:

This past weekend a bunch of us went off to a beautiful old farmhouse in the countryside just near the Welsh border. It was cold and wet outside, but I soaked up the picturesque scenery through the window as I sat all cosy on the couch with my book. We ate and drank a good deal, as is the custom on such trips, sat by the fire playing board games and building Meccano and generally having ourselves a time. I distinguished myself in several ways:

- insisting that we stop off in Abergavenny for no good reason except that I found the name ‘Abergavenny’ to be irresistibly delightful;

- performing a wee dance in honour of each type of ale we consumed (the Waggledance was good, but the Hobgoblin was exceptional); and

- spending a goodly amount of time on Saturday evening attempting to stick a cork into my ear.

It was fun.

Tonight I’m heading to Dr Evil’s lair where I expect there to be much revelry. I’d love to say that I’m planning to be hangover-free tomorrow, so that I can start the New Year as I mean to go on… but many years of experience has taught me that such noble intentions inevitably disappear with my first glass of champagne.

I’ve been feeling slightly ambivalent about bidding 2007 farewell – while I’ve had a lot of fun, it was a pretty long and frustrating one in many ways. Those first six months, where my life revolved around The Visa Question, then two months of unemployment, then adjusting to my new job – it’s been pretty full on and I’m glad that part is over. Among other things, I just haven’t felt much like writing for a while now – as this sad, neglected blog attests. I’ve only filled one notebook this whole year, and while many of the snippets recorded there are hilarious, I seem to have lost the habit of keeping my eyes and ears open for amusing stories.

I got two new notebooks for Christmas – subtle hints from those who love me – and so there will be a lot more scribbling in 2008.

A bundle of fantastic things happened this year as well: visits from so many lovely people, an excellent wedding, spending a good chunk of time with both my brothers, a fabulous sailing holiday, new friends and new places and a mad caper or three along the way. When I say that I feel like 2007 was a bit of a fizzer I think I’m feeling as though the struggly first part of the year cast something of a pall over the rest– and it’s time for that to end.

2008 is going to be great, and not only because that rhymes. I’m more sorted than I was a year ago, and I can build on my new beginnings and get a few steps closer to having my shit together for real. Getting better at my job, paying off debt, saving money, getting healthier – I’m not going to make resolutions, but I do feel like I’m in a better place to try and get some of that stuff done. Plus, I’m coming home at the end of February for a two-week visit! I’ve been more than a little holiday-homesick of late, so I’m looking forward to getting a good dose of you all to tide me through the next year. Stand by for more details of when the jLo Travelling Roadshow Extravaganza will be passing by your way.

I hope you have all had a very festive Christmas and a most excellent New Year. I miss you all something crazy and so I’m sending buckets of love across the seas.

Vote 1 AB

2007-11-21T23:45:00.000Z

This blog, neglected though it is, is the nearest thing to a public mouthpiece that I have, so I thought I might use it for a bit of a plug in this very important week.

Election week in London means voting at Australia House. They open late for the hordes of expats who want to make sure the country doesn’t go to hell in a handbasket in their absence. It was cold and wet and the queues were very long, but the atmosphere was lively and hopeful and very good fun. Australia House is a beautiful building on the Strand, right in the middle of storybook Olde Towne London. It was somewhat surreal to be standing in the drizzle, watching red buses go by and seeing St Paul’s in the skyline while lost in a sea of Aussie accents, surrounded by posters of Johnnie and Kevin and Bob (and, strangely, Mark Vaile), then being ushered inside to vote at cardboard AEC polling boxes that were so perfectly familiar.

I actually went down last night for another purpose as well: it was about time I did my (very) little bit to help out with trying to get some remarkable people of my acquaintance re-elected to the Senate. I stood in the rain with my little bunch of how-to-vote leaflets, and politely suggested to the assembled queue of soggy expatriates waiting to cast their ballots that they consider voting Democrat in the Senate.

There was plenty of good natured banter ("They still exist?!" "Sure they do! And they do a great job!"), and as the queues grew longer people were forced to stand right by me instead of rushing past. I took every opportunity to put in a good word for a top bloke I know, and I thought I might do the same again here.

For those of you not enrolled in Queensland, I apologise that the following is not particularly relevant to you. Although, Victorians? This lady is an excellent choice.

For those Queenslanders who may be reading: I highly recommend that you vote 1 for Andrew Bartlett in the Senate.

He’s been in the Senate for ten years and it would be a great shame if he was to lose his seat.

If you would like to read more about his views on particular subjects, you need go no further than his excellent blog. AB is a pioneer in terms of politician blogging in Oz - unlike all the johnnies-come-lately with their ‘oh, there’s an internet?’, he’s actually been doing it for many years now. In fact, he recently announced his 1000th post, which is pretty freaking awesome.

So, if you have a moment or three, you can read all about what he thinks in relation to refugees, indigenous issues, human rights, health, education, housing, animal welfare, the economy, and more.

One of the best things about AB is his devotion to the Senate and its role. We’ve seen what happens when the Government has a majority in the Senate, and it’s not pretty. Whatever your opinion of the decisions they have made, the Democrats have been thoughtful and constructive when it comes to the balance of power. I hope that they get the chance to continue to be thus for some time to come.

Reports of electoral death have been greatly exaggerated, too - AB is in with a fighting chance. It’s a close race for that last seat in Queensland, and it could as easily be Family First or Pauline Hanson as AB or a Green. Queenslanders, your Senate vote could not be more important. Choose wisely.

Politics aside, I think the most important thing is that we have good, talented, hardworking people representing us in Parliament. AB is all that and then some: a very good man, and a very good Senator. He is smart, thoughtful and passionate and serves with integrity and dedication. I am proud to have voted for him, and I very much hope that you consider doing the same.

I think I’m going to go down to Australia House again tomorrow night. Fingers crossed. Happy voting everyone!

Living Very Well

2007-10-23T21:56:00.000+01:00

Far out, you guys. I have no idea what has become of me. The last few weeks have been unbelievably fun, and I'm exhausted.

I can offer no reasonable explanation for why I have been so lax in posting – there has been plenty to tell you about. The stories will come, but for now here is a list of Things That Have Happened Since My Last Post. Since early September I ….

Laughed my arse off at a comedy gig at The Backyard.

Went to Cardiff to join my brothers at the Australia v Wales pool match of the rugby World Cup, and after the game cavorted madly in the streets with friendly Welsh people.

Have had visits from lovely people, including Lady Lindy, Ms Sarina, B1, the ever-fabulous Mitchell, my brothers and my GRANDPARENTS, which was awesome. I received confirmation that my grandparents DO read my blog, which was hilarious because every time I tried to tell them a story they already knew the ending. Once again, very sorry for the language, you guys. (PS. TPC? They read yours too).

Caught up with a long-lost high-school friend, who, it turns out, lives about 200m away from the Pickle. Thank you, Facebook.

Got utterly broken at Dr Evil's 30th spectacular birthday party.

Attended a job interview the morning after said party concluded.

GOT A NEW JOB (hooray!)

Had my mind blown away by a remarkable play (at the end of which I cried like a little bitch).

Signed a contract to stay at the Pickle for another year.

Played pirates for a week on a sailboat in Croatia with nine fabulous people.

Squealed like an utter girl at the news about Nat and Greenie (CONGRATULATIONS again, you guys! Best middle of the night phone call ever.)

Got my overseas electoral enrolment sorted JUST IN TIME.

Had an unspeakably awesome night out at Ronnie Scott's.

Welcomed my littlest brother back to the Pickle after his Big European Odyssey, so that he could sit on the couch and complain about London for a fortnight before heading home.

Celebrated Rip van Winkle's birthday in fine style.

Worked my butt off closing all my files and saying fond (and not-so-fond) farewells at Previous Job.

Suited up and put on my best Eager Girl face for my first day at my Shiny New Job.

and….

Vowed to get some rest. Soon.

I'm freaking exhausted. I’m two days into the Shiny New Job, and while it seems very promising, the fact that I’m still recovering from six weeks of way-too-good living means I’m not really giving them my best just yet. Much like this post, really.

I am very, very sorry to all those of you who have been kind enough to write me emails and Facebook messages – I promise I’ll write to you very soon. It's a madhouse, my life, and my brain is made of cheese. I hope you are very well. Talk to you soon.

Strike!

2007-09-05T22:42:00.000+01:00

A few years ago, I read a book called Lord of the Barnyard at the recommendation of McBec. It was one of those stories that stays in your head forever. I think of it often, and it's on my mind this week in particular.

I wouldn't want to ruin it for you in case you decided to go pick it up – but one of the plot points involves a strike by a bunch of garbage collectors that brings a town to its knees ('…with hilarious results'). I often wonder about essential public services and how long we could go without them before all hell would break loose.

There's a tube strike in London this week. It started Monday afternoon, and has already caused a remarkable amount of chaos.

Greater London has a population of about 7.5 million. According to this very reputable source, over 3 million passengers use the Underground each day. It's amazing, watching the city deal with a massive infrastructure issue overnight. Millions of people to move around, and all of them looking for another route home.

Everyone is late for work and it takes an age to travel anywhere. RVW reported that he went to a meeting in Canary Wharf yesterday, and it took one of the attendees four hours to reach the venue from his home in North London. The buses are crammed full to the brim, there are hordes of people crouched at each bus stop, poised and ready to hurl themselves through the doors at the first opportunity. Many buses sail by without stopping, too full to take on any more passengers, and the exasperated masses shake their heads and cluck with indignation each time.

There is anger and frustration and fisticuffs and basically, the city is falling apart at the seams.

I'm one of the lucky ones - the Pickle is close enough to my place of employment that I can walk there in about 35 minutes. I really SHOULD walk to work all the time, but am usually too lazy and running too late. Also, it rains a lot here. In any event, the strike has dovetailed nicely with the commencement of Operation: Move That Ass, and I've been walking to and from work each day this week. It means that I get to breathe lovely traffic fumes instead of the sweaty fug of the gym.

The problem is that there are many others doing the same. Even though I walk to work only once in a blue moon, I'm possessive and territorial about my footpaths. All of a sudden, they're swarming with people, which does not please me. In fact, I have been afflicted by pedestrian road-rage each morning, and I'm sick of it. It is apparently necessary for me to lay down some Rules of The Footpath According to jLo.

1. Walk at a brisk pace.

Seriously, folks, I'm no Kerry Saxby. If I'm steaming past you at a rate of knots, you're doing something very wrong. WHY ON EARTH DO PEOPLE WALK SO DAMN SLOWLY? It's 9:00am. Move your ass. People have places to go. If you do not have a place to go and are just out for a leisurely stroll, get the hell out of my way. At least keep left so that I can pass you without having to actually walk on the road in the face of oncoming traffic.

2. Walk in a straight line.

This drives me freaking crazy. What is it with the weaving all over the place? Are you completing sort of obstacle course involving witches hats only you can see? Are you DRUNK? It's 9:00am! You have a problem! A to B, people, the shortest distance between two points. Quit it with the veering from left to right, have your wheel alignment checked if it's that difficult.

Basically, it boils down to this: GET OUT OF MY WAY.

Oh, and I also have a special message for the cyclists: the little green man at the pedestrian crossing? Gives pedestrians the right of way. You are not a special class of vehicle that is exempt from the road rules. If you choose to ride on the road, obey the freaking traffic lights. Don't shoot through the crossing and just assume that the pedestrians will be too frightened to walk out in front of you. I saw a cyclist nearly get wiped out this morning by a woman who didn't see him as he sped through the lights - she put out her arms to protect herself and he was in all sorts of trouble. If I were a better person, I would not have laughed as loudly as I did.

Anyway, it's Lord of the Barnyard all over the place here, common standards of decency and efficient behaviour just falling apart everywhere you look. Anarchy is descending, I'm about to take charge and impose jLo Rule. I bet whomever is in charge of negotiating with the union is sweating like a bitch at the prospect.

UPDATE: I started writing this yesterday, but then apparently this afternoon the strike has ended. Just in time…

Getting Physical

2007-08-31T23:23:00.000+01:00

Last Monday, 27 August, marked six months to go until my 30th birthday. As my mother said on the phone last weekend, ‘OH. MY. GOD, how is that even possible? Actually, I'm not all that conflicted about it and am quite looking forward to my 30s. I have a sneaking suspicion that they are going to be fabulous.

Having said this, I'm the kind of girl who loves a milestone, and so I thought I'd try to use this one to try and see if I can't finish my 20s a bit healthier than I was when they started.

I have previously mentioned that I am a member of a local gymnasium. TPC was quite the gym bunny when he was in town, and he guilted me into accompanying him on a handful of unmemorable occasions. That soon ended, and when he left I felt absolutely no compulsion to resume my attendance. Guess how many times I went to the gym during my two months of unemployment? That’s right. A big, fat, zero (quite literally).

So, on Tuesday I commenced Operation: Move That Ass. Next time I sit on a tart, I want to be okay with showing the photographic evidence with the world.

I have been to the gym every evening this week. Not much, I’ll grant you, but it’s a start. It is a very strange experience. It stinks of stale sweat and mould, which is unpleasant. They play dreadful music, and the film clips featuring (unbelievably) scantily clad women gyrating aren’t as much of a motivation as you might expect.

Seriously, at the risk of sounding like I’m six months from 80 instead of 30, I cannot get over how little those music video dancers wear. It’s shocking and makes me want to scrub my eyes.

The biggest problem, though, is in my head. I am hopelessly unfit, I always have been. I know that it’s going to take time, that I need to do what I can and it will get better. However! I am a child of the age of instant gratification and slow, steady progress is freaking annoying. Further, it is humiliating to be going as fast as I can, all sweaty and with screaming muscles, and to be surrounded by people going three times quicker. I suspect that the reason I abstained from most physical activity from a young age has to do with the fact that I hide a mean competitive streak deep down inside and it pains me that everyone else can do it better than I can. I am attempting to develop a sense of humility about trudging along only slightly faster than a walrus while ignoring the sprinter on the next treadmill.

I have discovered that if you throw your towel over the LED display, no-one can see how fast you are going. Not that they’re looking, or that anyone gives a damn, but it makes me feel better.

Before he left, TPC designed me a mini-program for using the weight machines every other day. I get a kind of perverse pleasure out of this type of activity – it hurts like hell, but I can switch my iPod to something nice and heavy and feel all hardcore and Eye of the Tiger for a while.

The paranoia doesn’t go away, mind you – I feel guilty for taking up time on the machines when the fierce-looking beefcake types stand around tapping their feet, arms crossed, waiting for me to struggle feebly through my turn. I do realise that this is idiotic, but let’s remember that I am quite an idiot. I’m the type of person who feels the urge to apologise if I get in an elevator and press the button for a floor below that of any fellow passengers, in case they’re annoyed that I’m wasting their time. My head is a rather stupid place.

Anyway, I’m doing my best to get over this. The program TPC designed is pretty fun. I don’t know the names of the machines, so we had to invent descriptors so that I would remember which was which. Last night’s routine, for instance, included Chicken Tonight (lifting elbows out), The Big Dipper (a kind of tower on which you can do push-up thingys) and Why, Hello There (which is, um, a thigh exercise).

There’s a weird bloke who hangs out in the weights room every single evening. He hops on a machine now and then to demonstrate his prowess at various feats of strength, but mostly he just wanders about, checking out the scene, and offering to help others with their form. He mostly helps the pretty girls, I have noted, but will offer assistance to a fellow beefcake every now and again, so they can flex their guns at each other in lieu of dropping their shorts and just getting it all over with once and for all. Last night, I heard one such beefcake ask him, mid-flex, if he worked there, and he said, ‘oh no, I’m just here to fill in the gaps.’ Thanks, fella, we’re all much obliged.

I’m self-conscious enough without this guy watching me so I find his presence discomfiting and irritating. And yet (fickle creature that I am), I am a trifle insulted that he hasn’t offered to help me. Perhaps it has something to do with the death stares I shoot in his direction whenever he is nearby. Thankfully, it has reassured me to note that everyone looks like an idiot while doing the Chicken Tonight.

Once my workout (that word amuses me greatly) is done, I retreat to the changing room, where I am invariable confronted by the sight of many women prancing about without their clothes on. I am not sure what the hell is with that. I can’t help wondering if everyone got over this long ago in the locker rooms of adolescence while I was busy in the library, but I remain a furtive, towel-draped changer. Apparently, there are many who are perfectly comfortable hanging out in the nude, doing their hair and makeup and chatting on the phone and whathaveyou. Every time I go in there, I grab my stuff as quickly as I can and scurry out, with the voice of my Grade 5 teacher in my head saying ‘eyes on your own work, people’.

I was telling RVW about this the other night, and he said that it was just like he had always dreamed. Then he asked if I had a camera phone.

(I’m pretty sure he was kidding).

Anyway, humiliation and strange guys and naked women aside, I’m doing my best to stick with it. Who knows how long this health kick will last? For now, it’s like I’m tourist in the life of other people, which is curious and confronting but also kinda fun.

jLo (and) the Tart(s)

2007-08-22T21:50:00.000+01:00

This is a story from some time ago, which I had neglected to post until now. It happened while TPC was still in town, during roast season, when we would go to the Billy IV every Sunday evening with our jar of mustard, and then retire to Dr Evil’s Lair afterwards to drink wine and watch cheesy movies made in the 1980s.

On our way back to the Loft from the pub one evening, we stopped a small convenience store to lay in supplies of cheese and wine. While perusing the shelves, I came across the following:

jLo: “Ohmygod. Look! “ASS JAM TARTS!!!”

RVW: “I think that’s supposed to be “ASSORTED” jam tarts."

jLo: “But that’s not what it says. These are, quite clearly, ass jam tarts. And don't they look delicious!”

Everyone else: “…”

jLo: “We have to buy some.”

TPC: “How did I know you were going to say that?”

jLo: "At only 99p, we can't afford not to!"

I purchased the ass jam tarts, then spent the rest of the evening offering them to everyone at the slightest provocation.

Madam Fox: “Anyone for more wine?”

jLo (waving the open package): “OR AN ASS JAM TART, perhaps?! You know you want to.”

Dr Evil: “Yes to wine, no to tarts.”

jLo: “Damn”.

Later, I went out for a smoke. I came back in and blathered merrily about something as I went to sit on the futon. I threw my not-inconsiderable bulk down, just as TPC bleated frantically for me to stop. “THE TARTS!”

A pause.

jLo: “Did I just sit in the ass jam tarts?”

Everyone else: “Yes, jLo. Yes you did.”

Another pause.

jLo: “It seems as though this was inevitable.”

The others didn’t answer, they were too busy giggling as I blushed – caught between humiliation at sitting in tart and delight at the irony.

I lifted a cheek, and the room exploded with gleeful shrieks at the sight of an ass jam tart stuck fast to the pocket of my jeans. Cameras were procured and evidence recorded as I peeled the ass jam away from my actual ass. I had been waiting for Dr Evil to send me a copy of the photo so that I could post it here, but then I realised that I really didn't want to post a picture of my ass on the internet. This is one of those images that is probably best left to the imagination.

A Weekend in Paris

2007-08-07T22:20:00.000+01:00

(Do you have any idea how much fun it is to write that?)

Last weekend I had the inestimable honour of joining Le Tour de Fear 2007 for their final fling in gay Paree.

I was disproportionately excited about going: I haven’t been anywhere in ages, not least because the Home Office has had my passport for a while. The rationale for my trip was a questionable one: Le Comte had some exams he needed to sit and I was required to officiate while he did so. [ Apparently I’m sufficiently qualified and responsible a member of society to be approved to do such things. Who would have thought?] At any rate, I was on my way to Paris and that’s always good news as far as I’m concerned.

Friday

It was my first trip on the Eurostar, which was excellent fun. I booked late, and on Captain Kloss’s credit card, and so accidentally happened to be seated in a travel class above that to which I am accustomed. I was surrounded by grumpy well-dressed business people, all of whom played Sudoku for the entire trip – even while they were eating their dinner (which, by the way, was surprisingly good – I guess that’s what happens when you book Fancypants Class). My fears of being trapped in the tunnel were allayed by the lovely wee bottles of red wine that the hostess obligingly brought me at regular intervals.

After whipping myself up into a frenzy of giddy excitement before my departure and then one or three too many bottles of red on the train, my first night in Paris turned into One of Those Nights that every traveller has once in a while. As my brothers would say, it was an attack of The Fear.

The boys weren’t arriving until the following day, so I had booked a hotel for the Friday night. My hotel was surprisingly cool – with green apples instead of mints on the pillows – and after checking in I set out to roam the streets for a while.

It was late, I was tired. I was out of cigarettes. I don’t speak French.

I was reminded of how it feels to have those moments of utter and complete despair when in an unfamiliar place. It doesn’t take much, but when you’re tired and cranky and nothing’s open and you can’t ask for help, small tasks become overwhelmingly complicated. It makes me shy and hesitant and frustrated and I’M NOT HAVING FUN, DAMMIT, WHEN WILL THIS BE FUN?

I wandered the streets for an hour, aiming for bright lights and being disappointed time and again at finding nightclubs instead of supermarkets. I cursed myself for not making more of an effort to remember some French before I came. Random words from Madame Smythe’s Grade 8 French class flitted through my brain, as though they might be useful: ‘window’, ‘fish’, ‘happy birthday’, ‘left’, ‘warm’. I had to fight the temptation to ask in Spanish, as if speaking in any different language would suffice.

Eventually, I found a Holiday Inn and decided to try to impersonate one of their guests. I walk straight up to Reception and give him my one sentence: ‘I’m very sorry. I don’t speak any French.’ (it’s best when completed with a mournful, apologetic look). He directed me to the bar, where after whispering my request shyly I finally managed to exchange money for nicotine.

The tension eased somewhat, I made my way back to the hotel. In my earlier panic, I had completely failed to notice that I was staying right in the middle of deliciously clichéd storybook Paris: small dark streets lined with little bistros and dark, cosy bars, people sitting outside and smoking and looking impossibly chic. I wandered along, listening to the funky music and busy French chatter wafting through the air and then felt miserable all over again as I realised I was lonely and in no way brave enough to sit down somewhere to order a drink and try to do something about it.

I decided Conquering Paris could wait until morning (there’s a surrender monkey joke somewhere here, but I can’t quite find it). Weary and feeling sorry for myself, I found a little grocery store and went in to buy some snacks (and a beer) to take back to the hotel. I found cheese, and decided to splash out and get some salami as well – grabbing a package at random and discovering to my dismay upon my return to my hotel to discover that it was, in fact, bacon. I vowed to speak of this to no one.

My very exciting trip really wasn’t going very well so far.

Moments later, it got worse. I realised that not being able to say ‘how much is that?’ or ‘where can I buy cigarettes’ is one thing. The true depths of my language problems were made clear to me when I realised that I had absolutely no idea how to say what I needed to right at that moment:

“I’m very sorry, but I have spilled my beer all over the carpet”.

(Sob).

I didn’t even try. I mopped it up as best I could and tried to feel thankful that it wasn’t the bed.

Reasonably miserable by now (and beerless), you’ll be pleased to know that consolation was found in the form of hilarious French television, particularly an excellent show called “Splashdance”. A horde of young, scantily clad beautiful people clustered around a pool in a tropical location, bopping about to funky music. There was a raised wooden platform over the pool, and two people at a time clambered up to have – get this – a dance battle. When they were done, the crowd would vote, and the wooden platform split and tilted and the loser was dumped into the pool. It was awesome.

It happens sometimes, you know – all this excitement and adventure isn’t all fun all the time. I know it’s always worth sticking it out, though, so I sat and sniggered at the television, eating cheese and knowing it would be better in the morning.

The Rest of the Weekend

The Lads called early – they had already set up camp in a wee village outside of Paris. I hopped a train out there with minimal angst – navigating routes and timetables with relative ease. Abandoning all memories of my Friday night angst, I boarded the train and settled down with my book, feeling slightly smug as I thought, man, I’ve definitely got this travelling thing sorted.

Then I noticed that the train was going express, hurtling through each station at an alarming speed. I wet my trousers in panic, wondering where the hell I was going to end up and how on earth I was going to find my brothers. I used the last of my mobile phone credit to alert Captain Kloss of this alarming development, then cursed my trigger-happy nerves as the train slowed down and started calling at every station along the line.

Crisis averted, I was soon met by my hosts and escorted to my first encounter with the Messy Days Express. My first impression was that it was less smelly than I had feared - no small feat, given that it had housed three boys for a month. It was huge, but crowded inside with a wee kitchen and bathroom, a booth with a table, cabinets and drawers everywhere, everything neatly self-contained. The Lads had set up the card table outside the front door under an awning – it was camper’s paradise.

I’m a very responsible examination supervisor, so I checked thoroughly to make sure that there were no textbooks and no internet access, then we left Le Comte with his exam papers and headed back into town.

We weren't particularly fussed about seeing Paris sights – I’ve been there before, and the boys are coming back in September for the rugby World Cup. We ticked a box or two, wandering around the Louvre courtyard and climbing up the Arc de Triomphe, as shown here:

…but the bulk of the weekend was spent focussing on some bike race that was apparently a fairly big deal.

We found a pub just off the Champs-Élysées that was showing the penultimate stage of the Tour on television. We drank many pints, the boys regaled me with stories from their trip and I sat and scrolled through their many very entertaining photographs. There was one of TPC in red Speedos that was among the best things I have ever seen. I don’t have a copy, sadly, but perhaps if we’re all very, very lucky he’ll put it up on his blog.

We struck up a conversation with a garrulous Yank who had apparently been drinking Jagermeister all afternoon. He was highly entertaining, filled with stories of his Tour so far – he’d met everyone and scammed his way in everywhere. He was loud, but harmless and friendly, carrying packets of flower seeds from his native Texas to hand out as gifts. I made an excellent joke about yellow roses that didn’t get the love it deserved.

I tried to pay attention to the cycling, asking many questions and letting The Lads trip over each other to display the knowledge gained from three weeks on the road. As the beer flowed, my questions became louder and stupider. I recall speaking at length about my views relating to how the race could be enhanced with the addition of spokey dokeys, which I can only presume did wonders for my credibility. At one point, the Texan accused me of paying too much attention to the contents of the cyclists’ shorts as I peered intently at the screen. I told him he was right, but not in the way he thought:

jLo: “What I can’t stop imagining is the scar tissue on their arses. Imagine – years and years of professional cycling, the chafing must be unbearable. It must build up into layer upon layer of scar tissue, all along their legs and butt cheeks."

The Texan was flummoxed: “This is my fourth Tour de France. I can honestly say that has never occurred to me before.”

I told him that expanding your mind via conversation with random strangers is what travelling is all about.

We rounded out the day with champagne and a most excellent dinner. I’d tell you about what we ate, except that I know there are some vegetarians who read this blog who really don’t want to hear about it. Let me say just this: it was delicious, and I feel very bad about that.

On the train ride back out to camp, the boys taught me the card game that has kept them going for the long weeks of the Tour. It’s called 2,3,10 and I am pleased to report that I was a natural and reigned triumphant all the way home.

Camping in the Messy Days turned out to be a highly comfortable experience, not least because there was plenty of room for me after CK elected to seek solitude for an evening by finding a hotel and staying in town. The next morning, we hiked up to the train station, through the beautiful village of St Genevieve de Bois. There was a patisserie open at the station, and the boys groaned at the thought of pain au chocolat for breakfast again. For me, it was a novelty. A delicious novelty.

By the time we arrive back in the city, the Champs-Élysées was already choked full of people jostling for spots along the rail. The small streets off the main drag were beautiful and completely empty. We wandered for a while, then set up at the pub again to watch the start of the stage. The boys bought bucketloads of merchandise, because they are suckers:

(Check out TPC's hilarious beard!)

Just before the bikes arrived in town, we ventured out into the crowd that by this stage were three and four deep on the Champs-Élysées, chattering with excitement. We found a spot and TPC fetched us beers, arriving back just as the peleton flew by for the first lap. My impression of the Tour de France? Those bikes go really fast. Seriously, I can’t even describe how fast they were going. This blurry photo will have to suffice:

There were a bunch of American college students standing in front of us, making inane comments about the race. They were clearly scenesters, and The Lads scorned their superficial knowledge, bursting with self-importance at having seen (almost) Every Single Day of the Tour. It amused me enough that I joined in and did some sneering of my own - smug by association.

Eight times the pushbikes flew by, then we scurried back to the pub to watch the finish. It was jubilant and exciting, The Lads cheering the end of their odyssey. An hour, several beers and many hands of 2,3,10 later, it was time for me to head back to the station to catch the Eurostar back to Londres. I may have seen little of the city, but it was a most excellent weekend nonetheless. Next time, I’m going to have some French. I swear.

The Visa Story

2007-07-30T22:17:00.000+01:00

So, I’ve been back at work for a week, now. It’s been nice to see everybody and feel like a functioning member of society again – but something of a challenge to remember how to haul oneself out of bed at stupid o’clock (especially after a glass of wine or three the night before) and be awake and functioning during daylight hours.

Everyone has been very nice and welcoming, and full of questions about the circumstances that led to my absence in the first place. The horror of the process is fading now that is over, and so I want to write what I remember about it here for posterity.

1. So, what is this visa you’ve got, then?

It’s a Highly Skilled Migrant Visa. It’s basically a general permission to live and work in the UK for two years. I’m Highly Skilled! The Home Office said so!

[As has been noted, I can now actually say that I’ve got skillz to pay da billz and mean it…]

2. What did you have to do to get it?

It’s a points-based system, with points awarded for age, education, and earnings. I’m getting old and I don’t have a Masters, so I needed to earn more to qualify. What scraped me over the line was the fact that you get bonus points for earning your money in the UK. You also have to be able to prove that you are fluent in English.

What makes the process so overwhelming is the level of documentary evidence required by the Home Office. The Great Paper Chase of 2007 was quite the ordeal and one that I’m not keen to repeat anytime soon.

Proving my age and education was reasonably easy - although I did have to get my mother to post my original degree certificates over from Oz. Apparently this caused a crisis of conscience for Mum for a moment or two, given that she realised that if she didn’t send them, I’d have to come home. I remain very grateful that she was victorious in that particular inner struggle – thanks, Ma!

To meet the language requirement I had to get a letter from my university (which, let’s remember, is situated in Brisbane, AUSTRALIA) certifying that my degree was taught in English. My university charged me $10 for this letter, which I thought was nice of them.

Proving my earnings was the most entertaining part. Every pound of income and tax for each week of the past year had to be accounted for and corroborated with at least three forms of documentary evidence. Every single bank statement plus every single payslip plus group certificates plus a letter from each employer confirming the dates of my employment and my gross earnings. Countless phone calls, letters everywhere, sending documents back for errors to be fixed and then more phone calls to chase them again – it was a whole bucket of bureaucratic fun.

Here is the lesson I have learned: keep EVERYTHING. Neatly, in a file. You never know what you might need and when.

The best part, though, was that it wasn’t enough to just send payslips: oh, no. They could be forgeries! Even those printed on letterhead or fancy paper weren’t sufficient. Each payslip had to be stamped and signed by the issuing company to prove its veracity. I sent bundles of paper all over the countryside, crossing my fingers that they wouldn’t get lost and doing even more begging and pleading for someone to stamp and sign every sheet and return them to me.

For the record, I would like to thank my boss, who was very understanding and let me make my (very many) harassing phone calls from work on my lunch breaks.

Once the paper had been collected, I had a great deal of fun channelling all my (not inconsiderable) OCD energy into arranging said pieces of paper into a very neat and orderly folder, annotated and tagged and divided with brightly coloured cardboard. It was as if I felt as though my chances would be enhanced if the bundle looked pretty. I knew for a fact that they would not: I paid an immigration agency a LOT of money to put my application together for me. I knew the bundle would be ripped apart and put back together again in some mysterious special Home Office-approved way and handed over with a nod and a wink and a secret signal to demonstrate that THIS application was worth reading. Or so I hoped. Even so, collating everything into a super-organised package made me feel like I had some measure of control over the process. I find happiness in delusion. I’m okay with that. Shut up.

3. How much did it cost?

As stated previously, and repeated ad nauseum to all those unlucky enough to have crossed my conversational path this year: A LOT. The application is in two parts: first, you send off all your documents to see if you qualify for the Highly Skilled Migrant Program itself. They assess your evidence, work out if you have sufficient points, and send you a letter approving your application. THEN you apply for the actual visa – sending off your passport to be stamped, together with a declaration that you have, for the most part, refrained from acts of genocide. You know, the usual.

The application fees for each stage were £400 and £350 respectively, which is roughly equivalent to (AUD) $1000 each time. Just for the application fees. They charge it because they can. Grrrrr.

To make it even more fun, as mentioned above and below, I instructed an immigration lawyer to help me. My application was tricky in a couple of fundamental ways (seriously, this part is too boring even for this entry) and so I needed help to get it right. They charged me another £650 (AUD $1500 or so) for the privilege.

4. What were the immigration agents like?

Other than expensive? Somewhat entertaining. My first meeting with the agency
was reassuring, frustrating and bewildering in equal measure. My documents were okay, but their attitude was amusing. Firstly, the agent spent the first twenty minutes of our appointment complaining about England. She had a broad KathnKim accent, and apparently she hates it here. I sat there wondering (a) why she is in this line of work and (b) if she was really the person I wanted to be in charge of convincing the Home Office that I want to stay. I feared there may be a chance she would sabotage my application in some misguided effort to protect my best interests. I decided then and there that I would be checking it VERY thoroughly before it was sent.

Then she complained about how complicated my file is. I showed her my beautiful spreadsheets (they were a thing of beauty, I assure you – along with the pretty folder I spent hours preparing neatly cross-referenced spreadsheets to demonstrate very clearly where every penny of my money came from over the past 12 months) to try and show her that really, it wasn’t that bad. She continued to whinge and I grew quietly fearful – what if the Home Office thinks the same thing? Way to inspire me with confidence to pay your wages, lady.

Thankfully, I later learned that she was an assistant, and the lawyer who actually completed my application was efficient and encouraging. Also, very good at her job, as is now clear.

5. Why did you have to stop working?

Well, see this entry. Essentially, my working holiday visa allowed me to work for twelve months, and my time was up. I work in the legal sector, and people in my line of business tend to be a bit particular about you know, obeying the law and suchlike.

6. How long were you off work?

Almost eight weeks.

What made this very frustrating was that it never needed to happen. I’d planned the timing of my application very carefully, aiming to get it in a good few weeks before my visa ran out. Everything was ready to go – except one document, a group certificate from one of my employers. The financial year ended on 30 March 2007.

I didn’t get the tax document (called a P60 here) until the end of May.

AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGH. It still makes me angry, just thinking about it. I called everyone at the company, chasing almost daily for over a month, but there was no way they were sending it to me in anything other than their own sweet time. No amount of pleading, begging or threatening made a difference. One piece of paper, which, if it had been sent in a timely fashion would have made all the difference. Bastards. I suspect I will remain bitter about this for some time.

7. Anyway. It’s over, you’ve got it, hooray! You must be delighted!

(Psst, that’s not a question).

Yes, I’m very happy. It’s a relief, more than anything. I’ve incurred such a massive amount of debt in the last couple of months (surviving with more than a little help from family and friends, for which I am very grateful) that I need to be earning Pounds Sterling (the capital letters seem important) if I have a hope of paying it off anytime soon. It’s good to be back at work, I can start planning for the future in a way I couldn’t before. That feels good.

Along with the relief, I feel lucky. It feels more than a little unseemly to boast about the ‘hardship’ I endured in obtaining a right only available to a privileged few. I can’t quite shake the guilt at being a ‘desirable’ immigration candidate, purely by virtue of the accident of my birth – English-speaking, well-educated, capacity to earn a good wage and pay a higher contribution of tax and, yanno, white skin. I’m not a City banker with a seven figure bonus, sure, and I only just scraped over the line in terms of fulfilling the eligibility criteria – but it doesn’t matter whether I cleared the bar by ten points or one. I got there – and now I’m here I can’t help thinking about the many who never get the chance. There are people out there more qualified than I am who are driving minicabs, there are those who have fled war zones and have nowhere to go.

Sigh. A bit more seriouslike than my usual tone on this blog – but there you go. It’s a part of what this feels like.

8. Are you EVER coming home?

[Mum, is that you?] To be honest, I have no idea. I’ve got two years and right now, this is where I want to be. Ask me again this time next year.

Guess what...

2007-07-19T22:54:00.000+01:00

My life of leisure has come to an end. The waiting is finally over: my passport has been returned with a shiny visa inside. I am, officially, a Highly Skilled Migrant.

I feel like I should write more about the process – it has been drawn-out, expensive and very, very frustrating – but not quite yet. The main thing is that it is OVER. Hoorah!

I start back at work tomorrow.