Life in the Little Smoke

The Year of the Dragon

2012-01-24T19:44:00.003Z

It's Chinese New Year again and it is the Year of the Dragon.

Yes! It's Dragon's year. And in keeping with the rollercoaster journey she's taken me on so far, welcome the to the first day of my Chinese New Year.

I start the year feverish and ill. Bad.

I go to the doctors with Dragon as she's come out in a strange rash. It turns out she has folliculitis. This is Not Great.

I bump into a friend in the waiting room whose little boy has a high fever. The doctor doesn't know what is wrong. They have to go to A & E. I start to go with her but we are not allowed on the bus. She jumps in a cab. Dragon is looking peaky so I do not follow. They are still there in hospital. They were supposed to go to New Zealand for a two month trip this week. This is Bad.

Dragon spends the rest of the day with a runny nose and a cough. Sigh. Bad.

She starts bursting into tears frequently for no apparent reason. She has never done that before in all her months of illness. Oh dear. Bad.

Behold the Bad Tempered Dragon

Unexpectedly someone sends me chocolate biscuits and someone else gives Dragon a beautiful gift for no reason whatsoever apart from the fact she wants to. This makes the day better and is Good.

I am supposed to write my essay but my old wrist troubles have returned. De Quervains is the bane of my life post pregnancy. Bad. Bad. Bad.

I spend the first night of Chinese New Year having an ultrasound scan of said wrist and end up having my fourth steroid injection in 10 months. A few hours later I am in agony and cannot move my hand at all. Despair.

A friend unexpectedly drops by with some food she has made us for Chinese New Year, refuses to come in and heads straight off again on her two hour journey home. Oh the kindness. I can barely speak. The definition of Thoughtfulness.

I sleep very little for Dragon coughs throughout the night, as do I. Yes, you can guess what this is.

By morning my hand is no better. I feel like crying. But I don't.

I complete a good chunk of my second essay draft. Phew!

I find out we owe £1300 to EDF. I feel like crying. But I don't.

Husband brings Dragon home from nursery. I take one look at her and take her temperature. She has a fever. Poor baby. Curse you whoever you are that causes baby sickness. I'd shake my fist at you if I could move my hand into a fist to shake.

Hand improves marginally. Hope. Not a bad thing to have at the start of a new year.

And here we are. The first day of the Year of the Dragon. Tumultuous? Yes. Boring? Never!

Which really sums up my little Dragon quite well.

But What Do You Do All Day?

2012-01-09T15:01:00.008Z

When I was childless, it mystified me as to why people with kids always said they never had any time or energy.

What's keeping them so busy? I wondered.

Sure I'd heard about the sleep deprivation that newborns could cause but that was a just a phase right? What did these parents do that used up all their time and energy? After all there is 24 hours in a day. I decided they must be exaggerating.

Well feel free to slap me.

Because they were NOT exaggerating. At all.

After Dragon had been in my life for a few months, non-parent friends asked me things like:

Have you been following that story in the papers?
Have you read any good books lately?
Have you been to any good shows recently?

Oh how I laughed. But I shouldn't have because I was exactly none the wiser myself before Dragon.

So where does all my time and energy go as I sure as hell don't have much of either? I decided to take an inventory. Just a random day in the life of a mum of a nine month old.**

Here goes:

5.00: Dragon wakes and cries. I ignore her.
5.15: Still crying. I kick Husband out of bed to go soothe her
5.30: Dragon falls back asleep. So does Husband. I lie awake wishing I could.
6.05: Dragon wakes again. Cries
6.15: Breastfeed Dragon
6.45: Sit with Dragon in steamy bathroom and do her physio (for a mucus issue - long story).
7.05: Dress Dragon and change nappy.
7.30: Plonk Dragon in front of TV. I get changed, make beds, tidy Dragon's room and get her and my breakfast ready
8.00: Feed Dragon. Feed myself.
9.00: Play or Skype Family/Friends
9.20: Dragon nappy change and nap
9.40: Clean breakfast mess, fold and put away laundry. Put in new load of washing. Tidy house. Cook food for Dragon for following day. Answer emails. Make phone calls. Do online errands.
11.00: Dragon wakes. Check nappy. Give snack. Play if staying in or head out to meet friends or for some baby activities (paying exorbitant amounts of money for 30 minutes of singing and clapping, baby swimming, ie holding them in water for 30 mins etc)
11:45 Hang out new load of laundry if home. Get Dragon and my lunch ready
12.00: Feed Dragon lunch. Feed myself.
13.00: Clean lunch mess if at home
14.00: Prepare bottle and feed Dragon
14.30: Dragon nappy change and nap
14.45: Time to MYSELF!
16:00: Dragon wakes. Give snack. Play or go out. Meet up with mum and baby group. Cook or shop
16:30: Do second bathroom physio session with Dragon.
17:15: Get Dragon dinner ready
17:30: Feed Dragon dinner
18:30: Bathe Dragon and get her ready for bed
19:00: Breastfeed Dragon
19:20: Clean up Dragon dinner mess and kitchen
20.00: Eat dinner with Husband
20:30: Get Dragon food sorted for next day. Pack any bags needed for next day. Shower
21:00: Collapse. Talk to Husband. About Dragon
23:00: Breastfeed Dragon
00:00: Sleep
03.00: Dragon cries. Husband and I pray to the Baby Goddess. Please, Please, go back to sleep.

And sometimes, she does.

It'll be just as busy when she is bigger*

Not every day is as above. There are days where we are out and about from morn to night. Days where we have visitors. Days where surprises happen. Days where I get to go out and do whatever I want. Days where I go to uni and kickstart my brain. But the one constant throughout is that Dragon needs a LOT of care; day in , day out

And for now, I wouldn't have it any other way.

*Image courtesy of Fotolia UK

**To give him his full credit, the Husband is also the primary carer for Dragon. He looks after her most weekends and does her morning routine twice a week on weekdays too. And cooks and cleans and all of it. And did 80% of the night feeds when she was a newborn. And gets up and soothes her when she wakes in the middle of the night. He is a Good Egg.

A New Year Dawns...

2012-01-01T10:40:00.001Z

Wow. What a crazy year 2011 was.

I pushed a human being out of my nether regions. That human being now can sit, eat and give me cheek.

What will 2012 bring. This time next year, what will my little world look like?

The very first blog entry I wrote here in 2008 was about whether or not children keep you young. I had heard this saying before but never understood it. To me, all parents looked permanently exhausted, not youthful at all.

Now that I have joined the ranks of exhausted caregivers, I finally understand what it means.

Having a young kid takes a lot. It takes all your time, energy, patience, sanity. But what you get in return is immeasurable.

Hope springs eternal in human breast wrote Alexander Pope.

It's true. In the dark hours of another sleepless night, your baby looks at you or holds onto you in a certain way and all exhaustion is forgotten and you are renewed.

It Gets Easier? Said Who?

2011-12-30T10:51:00.001Z

One of the things that I am told constantly during my first year of parenthood is that it will get easier.

What does this mean exactly? Will I get to go on that tropical holiday soon and drink margaritas in the sun? Will Dragon start making me breakfast in bed? Will the gamut of kids stuff clogging our small flat evaporate to be replaced by tasteful decor?

Nada.

I think people aka other parents, tell you it gets easier because that is the thing to say. They are not going to say:

Actually it doesn't get easier. It just changes but there will always be something you are worried about.

You lug this around all day and tell me its easy

A friend once said to me that the early years of child rearing is physically exhausting. Later on when they are older, it becomes emotionally exhausting. She said that she found the latter much harder.

Hooray for her honesty.

Because I haven't found that it gets easier. It changes. Your expectations change. You get used to the physical drudgery and the toll it takes. You shift ever so gradually into parenthood. You begin to get a glimmer of the long haul.

One of the reasons I held off having a baby until my late 30's was that I didn't want to be constantly worried. Nor lose my solitude, both inside my head and within my life.

I'm so glad I waited for life is not easy with Dragon. It is constantly challenging.

But I'm up to the challenge.

Eight Months On...

2011-12-10T09:57:00.000Z

Technically that's not true. Dragon is now closer to nine months than eight.

Nine months. That's how long she gestated for inside of me. And now she's been out in the world for about the same time.

Slow down kid. What's your hurry? I want to say to her. I know she'll be off like a bullet once she tastes a smidgen of independence.

Amongst my new mum friends, there is heightened anxiety regarding milestones and development. Are they eating? Crawling? Sleeping? Walking? Later on I imagine it will be other things like whether they know their ABCs or if they can swim yet?

Part of my job as a parent is to facilitate her development in the best way I can. But personally, I think there is too much emphasis on development and getting further along.

She's a kid. Let her have a childhood.

A friend of mine asked me recently what dreams and hopes I have for Dragon. I said I had none. Apart from her happiness and health that is.

After all, she's not here to live out my dreams and hopes.

I'm here to help her live out hers.

I hope she has many.

Turn the Other Cheek

2011-10-26T09:34:00.001+01:00

One of the common myths about becoming a parent is that you ditch all your non -parent friends. That you become so obsessed with all things baby that you:

a) become a total baby bore
b) become a bit "us" and "them" in regards to people who don't have kids
c) secretly feel that people who don't have kids haven't glimpsed the meaning of life, blah, blah, blah

There is truth to all of the above. You do become obsessed. You have to in order to embrace the tsunami of a life change that is happening to you. As part and parcel of this obsession, you do become a baby bore for awhile. Therefore you do separate parent friends and non parent friends as you know who you can talk to about baby for more than five minutes and who not to. And as for the meaning of life, well its true that kids completely change your life forever. But it's your life. Not your friends.

Since birth, I have made a conscious effort not to become a baby bore in the presence of my non parent friends. After all, they have rich and varied lives which interest me more than discussing how many nappies I changed that day. I remember how much I used to hate it when I was not a parent and had to endure conversations about kids and nothing else.

What I did not expect though was for some non parent friends to ditch me. Yes! They turned the other cheek.

Did you hear? She had a baby. Another one bites the dust

After I gave birth to Dragon, some friends just disappeared from my life. They made all the right noises about coming to see me and the baby. But they never came. She's seven months old now. They ain't coming.

I wonder what I could have done to warrant this. Is having a baby so bad? It's not infectious.

It makes me wonder what our friendship was really about.

Turns out it was about them.

Paradoxes of Parenting

2011-10-25T10:04:00.000+01:00

I have ten minutes to write this. This is what my life has become. Short bursts of moments where I can fit in anything other than Looking After Baby. Therefore I write in short sentences.

I was thinking yesterday what a contrary experience parenting has been so far. Riddled with cliches yet everything a new discovery. I share these in short sentences;

You sleep less than ever before in your life yet have to do the most exhausting, non-stop work ever

Some days you wish your child to disappear but are filled with the most bone-chilling dread at the thought of it

Your brain is not engaged in the way it was prior to birth yet you are at your most intuitive

They take up your whole life and in doing so, your life changes

You long for your baby to stop crying and sleep but creep in to watch them breathe when they do

You collapse exhausted at the end of the day, relieved that the baby is asleep and you can have some time to yourself. An hour later, you start looking at photos of him/her on your phone

You miss them even though they are with you

Your relationship with your partner becomes tested to its very core and in being so, becomes stronger

You long to leave, to escape the four walls of parenting but on the days you have a baby free pass, you think about baby and hurry home.

My ten minutes are up. I'm back on duty.

The Trip of a Lifetime

2011-10-01T06:04:00.002+01:00

Our five week stay in Australia is drawing to a close. I mistakenly thought that time away with family and friends would mean I would feel more rested but alas, I feel more tired than when I first arrived. Oh well. This is the first big trip we've done with Dragon and I've learnt many things about travelling with a young baby. Some of these include:

Despite all the advice you get or tips you read up on, 50% of how your journey will go depends on your baby's personality and the unknown factors you encounter along the trip

For the first time, you will be grateful for other young babies seated near you on a flight. It takes the pressure off you and your crying child.

That said, do not worry if your baby cries. See it as a good thing. They are clearing their airways. That means their ears won't hurt as much.

Your baby's routine/schedule/whatever will completely change when you are away. Freak out if you want for a day or two and then let it go. For us this meant that Dragon stopped sleeping through. Yes this sucked. Oh well.

Travelling and being on holidays with a baby is extremely tiring. But it's worth it.

If you have a predisposition towards being OCD about hygiene or cleanliness re your baby, you might also have to let this go slightly, depending on where you are staying, what you are doing and who you are with. Let your baby get a bit dirty and germy. It won't kill them and they need it to build their immunity.

Learn to say No to friends and family who want to see your baby as many times as possible. This is difficult as you want this too. But in order not to get run down, you must protect your own health and energy, and subsequently, that of your babys'.

Holidays with babies are not holidays. They are simply a change of the environment under which you continue to care for your child.

Everyone should travel with their babies if they have the opportunity. It enhances the whole early baby experience. And it makes you feel like a person, not just a parent. And it is a great lesson in flexibility.

All the new mothers I have met in the last six months seem to have taken the above to heart. India, Hungary, France, Australia, Slovenia, Germany, Amsterdam are some of the places that Dragon's baby friends have visited. It's a great privilege and luxury to be able to show your kid a different part of the world before they have teeth or can walk.

Next up, my favourite city of all. New York, New York.

My Mum's a Tree Hugger

2011-08-27T12:04:00.005+01:00

Now that I am a mum, I view my life very differently. For example, I asked myself the other day:

What have I worked for that I am proud of as an example to Dragon?

I worked for twenty years in a wide range of jobs before I became pregnant. But the only thing that came to mind was my time spent as an environmental campaigner with The Wilderness Society.

Why?

Our family is about to take a long flight back to Oz. I know that once we land, if we jumped into a car and drove about six hours southwards, we would arrive at a place where old growth forests containing trees hundreds and hundreds of years old still stand tall. Not only trees but the whole ecosystems within are preserved and have not been razed to the ground for woodchips.

These trees hold secrets of the universe we could not even begin to imagine

I know I can show Dragon this ancient, primeval environment and say,

I helped save this

And that makes me prouder than anything else so far.

I Love Sark

2011-08-25T09:13:00.001+01:00

My friend Justin gave me my first Sark book in 1997 and I've been a fan ever since!

Generation Google

2011-08-03T21:16:00.003+01:00

Recently Dragon entered yet another phase of development with new and unexplained behaviours which left me drained and puzzled. So I did what my generation does. I hit the internet.

The more I read, the more confused I got. It seems that Dragon could be overstimulated; eating too frequently; not eating enough; teething; going through a growth spurt; suffering from reflux or wind; have trust issues as I let her cry herself to sleep; on the wrong schedule for her age; ready to wean; have allergies; needing more activity time; needing less activity time; missing her sleep window; a psychopath or all of the above.

Dear Google - Where Did These Children Come From?*

My friend Suki who is also a new mum told me that a midwife once said to her:

Your generation of women want to schedule your babies like you schedule your lives.

And its true. We want to have it all figured out. But you can't do that with babies. So there is a big industry out there making money from this insecurity. The Schedulers and the Whisperers.

Don't get me wrong. I think its a good thing that there is information out there. For I don't live in a society where I am surrounded by a village of experienced women who will guide and show me how to mother on a day-to-day basis. I have to get an inkling somehow.

But the best way I've found is through word of mouth with other mothers. And your own instinct.

Something that comes free and doesn't take hours of Googling to find online.

*Photo courtesy of http://melissacooley.com/2011/06/what-work-life-balance/

What Price A Mothers Love?

2011-07-26T12:03:00.003+01:00

I'll be frank. Prior to having a child, I could never understand the proliferation of toys that would litter the home of every parent I knew. Their homes seem overrun by an army of stuffed animals and brightly coloured plastic things that hurt your bare feet when you stepped on them.

At some point in my pregnancy, I said to the Husband:

I am not going to buy our baby lots of toys. She doesn't need them. It's a total con.

Although this was my stance, it was not that of my friends and family. Before she was even born, Dragon had toys and other gifts generously lavished upon her; so much so that it scared me. I felt like I was drowning in baby stuff.

As it turned out, I was right. When Dragon was born she did not need the mountain of toys that waited for her or the four drawers of clothes accumulated. All she needed was milk, sleep, a wash every now and again and lots of love and attention.

Easy right?

Not so. For when Dragon was born, so was a mother. I surveyed all the toys we had been given by our generous friends and decided that I wanted MORE.

My name is Lavendar and I am a Fisher Price addict.

What happened?

On the advice of my friend Yvette and my physio (long story), I purchased Dragon the Fisher Price Rainforest musical mobile. So she could have something to look at when her nappy was being changed instead of a white ceiling.

This was the beginning of the end

She absolutely loved it, laughing and kicking her legs whenever she saw it. It's saved my sanity many times over and should be displayed in a museum somewhere.

But it was a slippery slope.

A few weeks after the introduction of this marvellous mobile in our lives, we visited a friend who had the Fisher Price Rainforest musical playmat. The minute Dragon lay down on it, she started laughing, kicking her legs, squealing.

A pattern was emerging.

We must get it for her, my (own) mother said. See how happy it makes her.

I looked at my baby who was so happy on the playmat. I looked at her cheerful gurgling face and chubby legs kicking away as the happy smiling stuffed animals and flashing lights did their dance of addiction.

I knew then that I would fill my house with toys just to see her happy. I would bankrupt myself and the Husband in order to scratch this itch.

The mat was delivered two days later. And many other things since then.

What price a mothers love?

Ask Fisher Price.

Motherhood: It's Not all Apples.

2011-06-24T09:24:00.002+01:00

When I was six months pregnant, I registered myself for an NCT Early Days postnatal course. Mistakenly thinking it was a course about childcare, I who had only changed a nappy once in my life pre Dragon, thought I would need all the help I could get.

Turns out I should've read the fine print. Early Days is actually a course for the mother. I quote my course leader:

Post birth, all the attention is on the baby. How is the baby? What should I do with the baby? Well what about the mother? She's going through a lot too. But no-one really asks about her. This course is for the mother. A place where she can discuss and examine how motherhood is impacting upon her. After all, when a baby is born, so is a mother.

Great! I thought. I'm in the right place.

I looked at all the faces around me and wondered what their stories were.

It turns out that most of their stories were the same. Shiny, happy love stories. Blissed up with baby stories. My life is complete stories.

It really pissed me off.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you: The Veneer of Motherhood.

Is this what a good mother does? Dress identically to her children? Freaky.

Of course we all love our babies. Otherwise we would have killed them all by now for the torture of those early days/weeks/months. Let me tell you, the ONLY thing that keeps a baby alive when it allows you no sleep, tears the skin off your nipple with her mouth, screams for hours at a time, ad infinitium (insert your trauma here), the only thing that keeps that baby alive is LOVE.

So it's a given that we love our babies.Would dive into a burning lake filled with vomit for them. Would throw ourselves in front of a stampede of mating brumbies for them (insert corny cliche here)

But ladies, until that time comes when we must face the brumbies, let's do ourselves a favour and tell it like it is. I don't care how you put it. Changing twenty nappies a day is not blissful. Say it aloud. No-one is going to cart you off to the looney bin. Social services isn't going to come knocking. You are not a bad mother.

You are normal.

Going through a very normal, albeit, brutal rite-of-passage towards becoming a parent. The very core of your identity is shape shifting and that's gotta hurt at times.

But don't tell me its all fairy floss and rainbows. Just tell the truth.

A Little Tenderness For Heaven's Sake

2011-06-05T20:50:00.000+01:00

is the name of the show I went to see at Sadlers Wells last Friday night. Actually the name was Un Peu de Tendresse Bordel de Merde! by Canadian choreographer Dave St Pierre.

I went to the show by default. A friend who works at Sadlers had free tickets and asked if I was interested. To be honest, I didn't even look to see what the show was. I just said Yes for it meant a night out without baby. A night out BY MYSELF. For the first time in nine weeks.

As I travelled on the tube to Sadler's, I looked around the carriage at the diverse, eclectic population that dwells in London and felt extremely happy. Each person in the carriage seemed so interesting. For the first time since birth, I felt in sync with the city again.

When I got to Sadler's, I asked my friend, What show are we seeing?

Don't you know?
No, I just wanted to get out
So if I'd asked you to come out and play chess, you would've come?
For sure.

As it turned out, the show was the one that's been causing all kinds of controversy in the arts/dance world of late with its nakedness and dangly bits on display for all to see. For me, it wasn't this that was shocking, although having naked men in blonde wigs clamber onto the audience and stick their penises in unexpected places was surprising; it was some of the other crudity within the show. I didn't think it needed to be so blatantly crude. Pina Bausch, who St Pierre is obviously influenced heavily by, dealt with similar themes in a far more majestic yet intimate manner without resorting to in your face crudeness. I think the key difference was that Pina drew the audience in and made them feel connected to her pieces. St Pierre has more of a shove-it-in-your face-and-deal-with-it-attitude within this work.

They reminded me of Blonde Smurfs for some reason

That said, during the 145 min show there were moments of bright humour, wit and tenderness too. It was an interesting first night out post birth but for me the tube ride in had been far more engaging and peformative. Just goes to show that real life trumps art almost every time.

Breast is Best? Give it a Rest.

2011-05-20T00:07:00.061+01:00

Like any other human being, I have faced many challenges in my life. Death of loved ones, financial concerns, health glitches and the end of favourite television sitcoms. When I became pregnant, I thought giving birth would be one of these challenges.

How wrong was I.

Not that birth was a walk in the park. It hurt like hell. I once read that it felt like being set on fire, torn in half, then being cut up in bits and chucked into a pool of piranhas. I've not had any first hand experience of the above but it sounds fairly accurate.

No, my Waterloo moment came when I started to breastfeed. Before stitching my nether regions, the midwife clamped Dragon onto my nipple whereupon she unleashed her Hooverish industrial strength suck. Twenty minutes later, I asked:

Erm, is it supposed to hurt?

Yes at first. But it will get better in a few minutes , was the reply.

One week later, I was still waiting for better to happen. I'd not slept since labour, cried constantly and dreaded feeding Dragon for it had come to equal agony for me. As a result I did not enjoy being with Dragon in that week as I 'd come to associate her with pain and trauma. It was horrible.

What's wrong with me? I worried constantly. Why don't I feel good about my baby? Why isn't it working? Is it supposed to hurt this much? Am I going to get post natal depression at this rate?

The parade of midwives that visited me post-natally all had different faces but the same message:

Persevere. Breast is best.

A few days later I hit the wall. It was either me or the baby. Husband and I took matters into our own hands and hired a lactation consultant. It was friggin expensive but when I called her, she was the first health professional who listened to me. Actually no. She was the first one who actually heard what I was saying.

I can hear you are desperate, she said over the phone, I'll come as soon as I can.

That was the beginning of my climb out of breastfeeding hell although it has not been an easy time. I've had laser treatment on my nipples. Mastitis visited me three times. Dragon was diagnosed with posterior tongue tie. I got thrush in the nipple and Dragon got it on her tongue which we both still have. I developed a bacterial infection in my milk ducts.

One of the stated benefits of breastfeeding is that it is inexpensive but for me to try and get a hang of it has cost a fortune. Probably the cost of formula for a year. Just the lactation consultant alone was £70 an hour. But I had no choice as there was nothing else available to me on the NHS.

The roll call of medication I've taken because of breastfeeding complications has included antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, anti-fungal oral and topical treatment and paracetamol. A far cry from my pregnancy where nary a panadol crossed my lips for the entire nine months. The irony of this doesn't seem to filter down to the Breast is Best brigade who say:

The medication doesn't hurt the baby or the breastmilk.

But what about the mother? What about the effect of all these pills on her?

What about the I'm in Pain, Get this Baby Off Me position?

Because of my experience, I have learned more about breastfeeding than I ever desired to. I have spoken to and been seen by lactation consultants, breastfeeding counsellers, breastfeeding coordinators, breastfeeding pharmacists, personnel from the Breastfeeding Network and trained volunteers from the La Leche and NCT breastfeeding helplines. So many people have looked at my boobs, nipples and latch that I am now more comfortable half naked with strangers than not. From all these conversations and sessions I have drawn my own conclusions.

And that is the Breast is not always Best. And by that I mean breastfeeding. I do not mean breast milk which can have excellent benefits for the little one. But even this is contextual. After all, if the mum is taking in toxic substances or boozing it up or whatever, that isn't best at all.

The bond of intimacy created by breastfeeding between mum and bub is also only best if it is a positive experience for all. When I dreaded the sight of my daughter in the early days of breastfeeding, there was no constructive bonding going on.

Further to this, when Dragon started on the bottle and was fed by my Husband and my Mum, it created a bond between her and them that was special from an early age. After getting over my own ego of wanting to be The One and Only in my daughter's eyes, I fully appreciated how valuable it was that she be cared for by and trusting of others. Like the saying goes, it takes a village....

The pressure on new mothers to breastfeed in the UK is immense. Whether it be direct pressure from midwives or lactation consultants who ignore the agony etched upon a new mother's face and only have one answer to all her entreaties (Breast is Best, Breast is Best) or subliminal pressure such as being told things like, Imagine the discomfort of a cold, plastic teat in your baby's mouth as opposed to a nice , warm breast; it all serves to instill guilt in a new mother if she is not breastfeeding. It all serves to fuck her up!

As if she didn't have enough to deal with already.One lactation consultant suggested I find a pharmacist who would be willing to make up an ointment for me that duplicated a type sold in America but was not legal here to treat my nipple thrush as I'd had it for over a month.

Lady, I wanted to say, I have a newborn kid. I don't even finish a cup of coffee in the morning. I don't have time to find someone who will help me break the law.

The bulldozer approach is never going to win which is why the UK has such low breastfeeding statistics. There is insufficient support for women who run into problems in the first few weeks and so they give up. Or get trapped into a vicious cycle of complications and give up. It's all very well for the government to push breastfeeding as a message. But with low resources invested in helping women establish it as a practice, the stats are going to stay low as there is nowhere to turn to when you run into trouble. With Breast is Best continually shoved in their faces, new mothers will continue to suffer and feel guilty if they are unable to breastfeed.

It all makes me very angry and it's not just the post pregnancy hormones. The stress and pressure of breastfeeding robbed me of those early weeks with Dragon. I'll never get those first moments back. Had I known then what I know now, I would not have let breastfeeding take over the way it did post birth.

As for Dragon and I, we've got it all going on. Breast, bottle, boobmilk and formula. We're still finding our way but it WILL be our way and that's what's best for us.

New Parents Don't...

2011-05-14T22:16:00.000+01:00

Just some observations of mine from the first few weeks of parenthood.

New parents dont't have mealtimes. They just shove in whatever they can scavenge as quickly as possible.

New parents don't have conversations with one another. They use walkie talkie lingo. Is she fed? Yes. Changed? Yes. Sleeping? Yes. Good.

New parents don't operate on clock time but feed and sleep time.

New parents are constantly lurching between terror and love.

New parents don't read more than three sentences at a time. Apart from articles found through Google about what to do if your baby is ____ (fill in the blank)

New parents don't get to finish cups of coffee or tea.

New parents don't fit their lives around anyone else apart from their baby. For now.

New parents don't care if you are put out by the new status quo. If you are a real friend, suck it up.

New parents don't care that much about themselves for now. As long as the baby is alright.

New parents don't do much for the first few hours but stare. At their baby.

New parents don't realise the scope of their own parents until it's their turn.

New parents don't want to hear negative things

New parents don't wear the emotional armour they usually have.

New parents don't know what the hell they are doing.

New parents don't want to ever go back to a life without their baby.

Love is a Battlefield

2011-04-28T23:19:00.001+01:00

Pat Benatar was right. Love really is a battlefield. It's a war zone. It's the night of the living dead.

Dragon entered my life one month ago. She came promptly on her due date in a birth so glorious and straightforward that it seemed too good to be true. Yes it was painful. Yes it was hard. But as I twisted my sweaty head towards the open hospital window and watched dawn break as I pushed my baby into our world, I was conscious of how wonderful all of it was. Post birth, I was on a high. I vaguely clocked that the little blinking creature on my chest was my responsibility. I was too busy cracking jokes with the midwife and doula. My husband was slumped in an ashen, grey heap somewhere in the corner.

They're tiny but they pack a punch

I lost that high somewhere in the post natal ward where they deposited me and Dragon afterwards and left us alone. I realised that the buck stopped with me. I was her lifeline. It was utterly terrifying. Like many new, first time parents I didn't sleep a wink that night (or any thereafter), watching her breathe. I got on my Blackberry and unleashed my terror upon all my friends who handled this first time mum with care and understanding. That night was also when the tears set in.

The tears continued for many days and nights as the spectre of breastfeeding reared its ugly head. All I can say about that right now is that if I had the guts to chop my breasts off, I would. Breastfeeding rendered me into a state of despair so deep I feared for my mental health. In the space of three weeks, I'd experienced thrush, mastitis, having Dragon's tongue tie snipped, severely damaged nipples and pain so bad that I would go through labour again rather than endure it.

Subsequently I have learnt a lot about breastfeeding the hard way. Not only about the physiology of it but the politics, the socio-cultural context and the pros and cons of how it is promoted to new mums in the UK. More of that another time.

They say that nothing can prepare you for it and that's true. I could not have predicted the brutality of new parenthood, which in my case was severely exacerbated by breastfeeding problems. But I'm lucky for Dragon was born a healthy, happy baby who I hope to keep that way for as long as I can.

For nothing can prepare you for the intensity of the love you have for your baby either. The love which keeps you afloat amongst the gruelling drudgery of looking after a newborn on no sleep.

Love is a battlefield but the fight is wholly, with yourself.

Full as a Goog

2011-03-28T14:52:00.002+01:00

After seeing a recent pregnant photo of yours truly, a friend of mine declared that I was:

As Full as a Goog.

Slightly taken aback I asked her what language she was speaking.

Australian as it turns out:

Phrase: full as a goog - (Australian, simile, colloquial): having eaten too much, or being drunk

Given that was several weeks ago, I wonder what she would make of me now? Coming up to forty weeks pregnant I have surely transcended full googness and now reside in the State of Bureaugrade.

As in Violet Bureaugarde.

You know - the one in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory who blew up into a big, purple blimp!


Spot the Pregnant Lady, I mean Violet.

In the likely event that I go past my due date, I wonder what I will resemble past forty weeks?

Nah. Too happy. I will not be skipping anywhere at forty one weeks.

Yep. That's more like it.

March for the Alternative

2011-03-24T09:27:00.001Z

I want to attend this march in central London on the weekend. I'm not happy about the slash and burn cuts being imposed by the government. Health, education, child welfare, heck- any welfare, human rights, immigration and diversity, arts and culture, literacy, legal and housing aid are all under threat. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

However there's a few logistical problems in my way. My husband. And the fact that I'm nine months pregnant.

Power to the Bumps!

My husband has threatened to get a court order to sanction me if I go to the march. He said he'll have me declared Not in Fit Mind under the Mental Health Act.

Do you not care about the kind of society we are bringing our kid into? I asked

I care more about you not being kettled in by the police or thrashed by a baton. I want the kid to make it here in one piece was the terse reply.

Fair enough.

So I'll watch it on TV instead although the media will no doubt focus on the idiot minority who turn a peacfeul protest into a violent farce. They won't focus on the 20,000 other people who have turned out to express their discontent.

Years ago when I was active in the environment movement, an oft quoted phrase in much of the campaign literature was that of anthropologist, Margaret Mead who said;

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.

She also said

Never depend upon institutions or government to solve any problem. All social movements are founded by, guided by, motivated and seen through by the passion of individuals.

Governments will come and go but Mead's words will stand the test of time.

Enter the Dragon

2011-03-14T15:17:00.001Z

Where oh where did those nine months go?

Enjoy the time chirruped all my (wise) mum friends, It won't come again.

And as I find myself perched on the precipice of labour, I couldn't agree with them more.

Why is it that we pregnant-for-the-first-time-women spend nine months fretting and worrying and busying ourselves with a million and one inconsequentials only to find that as we stare into the pit face of the unknown (a.k.a giving birth at any point now), we are none the wiser and wide-eyed as ever. The armour of information and stuff that you've accumulated over the past nine months is precisely that. Armour. It may help you but it won't do the work for you.

I have no control of what is about to happen. A thought that is petrifying and thrilling at the same time.

Looking back, I can now say that I have enjoyed my pregnancy. Despite the discomfort of symptoms, the hormonal madness and sometimes difficult life changes, I have enjoyed observing what's been happening to me; both physically and emotionally.

I appreciate though that it is only the very beginning of something. Something enormous and fantastical. And by that I don't mean Dragon's head.

What I mean, is Dragon's heart.

I'm soon to meet my baby.

Oh boy.

Tell it Like It Is

2011-02-18T14:26:00.002Z

A friend posted this recently on Facebook. Too good not to share:

Good 'ol HR. Why call an apple and apple when you can call it a spade?

The Big C

2011-02-18T14:01:00.004Z

Ever since Spencer Tracy uttered the immortal lines:

Not that I intend to die. But when I do, I don't want to go to heaven. I want to go to Claridges

it has been on my list of places to visit. Now that I have stayed there I too want to join Tracy in the afterlife; living it up in an art deco suite. Clinking whiskey tumblers and cuttin' the rug.

One of the finest actors of his generation, Tracy was also an alcoholic insomniac but I digress.


My suite or yours?

The heritage of Claridges is vast. Royalty, heads of state, movie stars have all graced its interiors since 1812 and left with their reputations intact for Claridges is discrete. With a capital D.

There was nothing discrete however about my excitement when we checked in and found out that we had been upgraded to a suite. A suite!

We noted that it's your first visit, they said to me, and that you are pregnant. We want you to enjoy yourself.

I think that's when I fell in love with Claridges.

The Linley suite which was ours for one glorious evening was Art Deco deluxe. There was no chintz to be seen anywhere.

After I'd done a few laps of the suite, touching things and concluding that the entire suite was larger than our apartment, there was a knock at the door. It was our butler. The butler that came with the suite. She had brought me a pregnancy pillow. Without being asked.

Rubbing my belly, I whispered to Dragon:

If you want to come early, now is a really, really good time to arrive.

After our (all too short) stay, I realised what I loved most about Claridges was its understatement. It's not flash, modern or overly grand. It has no razzamatazz.

But what it does have is charm, elegance and the best damn customer service I have ever experienced at a hotel ever.

Which is why I wrote my first ever TripAdvisor review which tells a little bit more about our visit.

Forget dying. I'm going back way before then!

Movie-a-Go-Go!

2011-02-14T11:35:00.000Z

Somewhere along the line in my pregnancy I read that you should go and see as many movies as possible before the baby comes. That those quiet soujourns in a darkened cinema would become a distant memory for some years to come.

Being a movie junkie at heart, I didn't need any further convincing and have spent many a blissful afternoon since in celluloid escapism.

Some of the flicks that I have seen include Black Swan, The Social Network, The Kings Speech, Morning Glory, Blue Valentine, Little Fockers and Another Year. Of the lot, The Social Network won it hands down for me. I love geeks. I always thought they would inherit the earth.

Maybe all this movie watching will make me one of these?

Before Dragon arrives, I'd also like to squeeze in Biutiful, Barney's Version, How Do You Know, Somewhere, True Grit, Rabbit Hole and Fair Game.

I'm topping up for the year to come. Can you blame me?

Childcare :The Buck Starts Here

2011-02-11T14:43:00.001Z

About two months ago over dinner some friends suggested that we start thinking about childcare options for our unborn, unnamed baby.

Freaked out on the way home, I said to the Husband:

But s/he's not even born yet!

He just shook his head and replied:

Homeschooling.

Dragon still isn't born but over the past few weeks I've started checking out some of the local nurseries in my area. Up against the coalface of future parenting reality, I either have to ditch my university course which I'm loathe to do or locate some childcare options quicksmart for when I return to study. Quick being the operative word as places go fast. Even for an unborn child.

Are they sitting quietly because they've been drugged?

The thing is that everytime I've been to see one of these nurseries, something in me breaks a little. It doesn't matter how nice the staff seem nor how happy the kids look. Whether the meals are organic or if the fees are expensive rather than exorbitant. I feel a little sad each time.

Will I be able to leave my child at one of these places? Maybe when the time comes I'll welcome the break?

I don't know.

It's a small taste of the heartbreak a parent goes through. And I don't even have my stripes yet.

Mama Ain't Raisin' No Fool!

2011-02-10T19:33:00.004Z

I saw this today. It made me laugh:

The Pain of Pregnancy Brain

2011-02-05T15:34:00.000Z

It's real.

The curse of pregnancy brain.

What was I saying?

What was I thinking?

Huh?

The worse was the day when someone asked me how to spell my husband's surname and I didn't know.

I wonder if it is not so much a temporary absent-mindedness but rather a short circuiting due to information overload. Once you become pregnant, there is so much additional information to take in.

I found this pregnancy survey on another blog and decided to replicate it here.

How did you find out you were pregnant? By taking five cheap home pregnancy tests that I had bought on the internet
What kind of Pregnancy test did you take? Don't know. It was only a fiver for fifty on the internet.
What were your 1st symptoms? Sore boobs.
Who did you tell first? My husband. Then my masseuse.
Who was with you when you found out? Le Husband.
My 1st reaction: Bemusement.
Was your baby planned? Yep
When was the baby conceived? I can't say.
How far were you when you found out? Five weeks
How did your parents react? Happily

My baby
Due Date: March 21, 2011
Do you know the sex? Yes
Any names: Yes
Any Ultrasounds? Four so far, one more to go.
Have you heard the heart beat? Yes and it's a great sound
Who do you think it will look like? Judging by the ultrasounds, it has its father's massive head (OW!)
Will the baby have siblings? Your guess is as good as mine
Have you felt the baby move? Absolutely

Miscellaneous
Did you have morning sickness? Only all day nausea
Did you have any cravings? Orange juice, apple juice, bland carbs and cold cooked ham.
Did you have any mood swings? Is that a trick question
Are you a high risk pregnancy? Nope.
Any complications? Nope.
Formula or Breastfeeding? Whatever works
Have you bought anything for the baby yet? Yes
When did you start to show? About 5 months
How long could you wear your regular clothes? Still can although jeans need a belly belt
Will you keep the baby’s clothes? Only a few special pieces
Home or Hospital? Hospital.
Natural or Medicated birth? Whatever works
Who will be in the delivery room with you? My partner in crime
Do you think you will need a C-section? Who knows
Will you let anyone video tape the birth? No way Jose
Are you excited? Yes
Who will help you with the baby after the birth? My husband and our army of invisible staff. And then my mum.
What is your favorite thing about being pregnant? The bump, the happy hormones, the loving support from friends and family and the baby grooving away in my belly
What is the worst thing about being pregnant? Everything else
What’s one thing you miss doing since being pregnant? Running.
Any days you wish you were not pregnant? Yes
Are you ready for a baby? Yes
Have you had your baby shower yet? Not yet
Do you like kids? Depends on the kid.
How far along are you now? 28 weeks and counting…

You Lookin' At Me?

2011-02-03T16:39:00.001Z

So I was at the gym last night and again, I was the only pregnant person there. It's getting pretty dull being in the sweating minority. The Husband reckons he has seen other pregnant woman work out there but they have all eluded me during the past eight months. I'm not suprised I don't see any of them because my gym is not pregnancy friendly. It is anti pregnancy. For the record, I am a member of Nuffield Health.

Where are you all?

It's getting dull being the lone child incubator huffing and puffing amongst the sleek and lycra clad. People stare. They pretend not to stare but they do. I see their staring reflections in the mirror. I can see what they are thinking:

What's she doing here?
Is that safe?
Shouldn't she be resting?
That's so vain to be worried about your weight when you're pregnant.
Wow! A pregnant person! At the gym!
How far along is she?
Will I be able to do that when I'm pregnant?

And so on.

I do wish there were more pregnant women working out with me. Mainly because being the object of curiosity makes me belligerent. I come over all Travis Bickle-like:

You lookin' at me? You lookin' at me?! Then who the hell else are you lookin' at? I'm the only one here!

I'm thinking of getting a t-shirt printed up to wear when I next workout.

If you keep staring long enough my waters will break

or

It's not what you think. I was just born this way

Music Soothes the Savage Beast

2011-01-27T17:39:00.003Z

For my uni lectures this week I had to read several interviews about the work of Raimund Hoghe. Hoghe is not your standard dancer. He has severe curvature of the spine, a.k.a - a hunchback. In one interview he was asked if he follows a physical training regimen in order to be able to perform. He replied:

No. The music gives me the power. With music I can do things I can’t do by myself

Raimund Hoghe at work

This stuck in my mind. It's true. Music does have that power.

Which is why I have started to ponder my music playlist for labour. Whilst I am in the throes of giving birth, I need music that will carry me through it.

Of course I may not want music when the time comes but prefer the sound of my own screams ricocheting off the hospital walls. Nonetheless, I best be prepared.

The only thing I have to compare birthing to is training for a marathon. When I trained for the marathon, I needed a mantra, music and motivation. The music that got me through and gave me that extra push was metal. The wailing of the lead guitar plus the grunt factor of the bass overlaid with the guttural screams of the singer and manic drum bashing blend nicely to aurally simulate the agony and ecstacy of running a marathon.

And perhaps birth too? Whaddya think?

Will our kid come out looking like this?

So that's whats on my playlist so far. Metallica, AC/DC, Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden and some home grown Perth talent, Karnivool. With a bit of Apocalyptica for the quieter moments.

Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother

2011-01-17T15:05:00.003Z

There is a new book out about parenting called Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother which has been causing all sorts of controversy. The book is by Yale law professor, Amy Chua and is a memoir of the Chinese parenting methods she used to raise her two daughters.

The book caught my eye as I'm a by product of two Chinese parents. Fortunately for me, they did not go to the extremes of Ms Chua although there is much I can relate to in her methods from my own upbringing. Motivation through criticism. An expectation of strength rather than fragility. Strict, tough love.

Although I have not read the memoir, it seems that it is being hyped up and sensationalised in order for it to sell. Although Chua stands by her outlook, the book goes on reveal how her younger daughter's eventual rebellion against Chua's techniques led to an re-evaluation of her parenting style.

I read the below excerpt from the Guardian aloud to the Husband:

"Amy Chua was in a restaurant, celebrating her birthday with her husband and daughters, Sophia, seven and Lulu, four. "Lulu handed me her surprise which turned out to be a card," writes Chua. "More accurately it was a piece of paper folded crookedly in half, with a big happy face on the front. Inside, 'Happy Birthday Mummy! Love, Lulu was scrawled in crayon. I gave this card back to Lulu. "I don't want this," I said. 'I want a better one - one that you'be put some thought and effort into. I have a special box where I keep all my cards from you and Sophia, and this one can't go in there.'
What kind of mother throws her four year old daughter's home made birthday cards back at them? A "Chinese" one, that's who, says Chua.

The Husband looked aghast whilst I laughed merrily.

There is no way you are going to do that to our child, he huffed.

Poor little half Chinese baby. Of course I wouldn't do that to you.

Well maybe only the Chinese half.

The Circle of Trust

2011-01-13T14:28:00.002Z

Once upon a time (or so I'm told), women giving birth were guided through this rite of passage by an extended social network of relatives and other women. Birthing rituals and practices were handed down from generations prior and were an integrated part of the social infrastructure. Cross culturally, these birthing practices had in common the aim of ensuring a safe passage for the arrival of the baby and the eventual recovery and re-integration of the new mother into society. Whether it be smoke signals, songs or sardines, all cultures have their birthing beliefs.

It helps to have a few spare hands

As the time draws closer for me to experience birth, I find myself straddling multiple pregnancy worlds. The western, first world approach to birth where birthing wisdom is primarily attributed to medical institutions. Within this are alternatives such as doulas, alternative health practitioners and the internet. Then there is my Chinese heritage which means that I must not wash my hair or eat or drink cold foods, amongst other traditions for the first month post birth. Then there is the expat world I've chosen which means I am going through this experience far away from my family as well as my oldest and closest friends.

Although I do not have those old support structures close to hand, I am lucky to be priviledged enough to create other ones. I have a network of new friends; both parents and non-parents who have shown immense generosity and support throughout my pregnancy. I have sought and found wise women who have helped and grounded me through their various areas of expertise. This roll call includes acupuncturist Alison Courtney; pregnancy yoga teacher Lisa Askem and doula Amity Reed.

However the pregnancy phenomena I like most is that irrespective of space, time or distance, your loved ones gather about you; boosting you through this period of immense challenge and change. Whether it be in person, the phone, email or telepathy, I feel their support.

The fact that this age old trend remains undiminished is reassuring in its testiment to humanity. As well as a source of joy to me and the baby within.

A Merry Crisis Christmas

2010-12-25T12:32:00.001Z

For the last four years, my Christmas has been about Crisis:

This year is no exception. Crisis is a homeless charity in London which provides a week long christmas refuge for those who have no place to go. Meals, beds, activities; health, counseling and education services are all provided and run by a small army of volunteers.

It doesn't feel like christmas to me now if I'm not at Crisis. I like presents and gorging myself on food as much as anyone.

But it's a hollow Christmas if that's all it is.

Sir David Attenborough

2010-12-20T22:07:00.002Z

On the top of the present hitlist for my Husband's birthday this year was:

To take him to see David Attenborough in the flesh.

Attenborough is one of my Husband's childhood heroes. He rates pretty highly on my meter too. There aren't many like him around anymore when it comes to sheer enthusiasm and knowledge of the natural world.

Last week I got my wish. We attended a fundraising lecture at the Royal Geographic Society. The event was in aid of the International Commission on Zoological Nomenclature with David Attenborough and Richard Fortey as the guest speakers; there to discuss the whole scientific naming process. I wasn't particularly taken with the topic and hoped it wouldn't be overly dry or boring.

Sir David Attenborough and Prof. Richard Fortey

As the seats in the audience filled to capacity, the Husband nudged me:

Look! There he is!

No, that's not him, I replied authoratively. That guy is limping. Attenborough doesn't limp.

I was forced to eat my words moments later when the slightly limping, white hair gentleman took to the stage and sat down.

The Husband remained silent.

Ok. Ok. I muttered . I guess he is 84.

Frail though he may be, the minute Sir David opened his mouth we were in his thrall. The guy is a damn good public speaker with charisma to boot. Bucketloads. Scientfic nomenclature suddenly became fascinating, humorous and inspiring. It was one of the best talks I have been to.

Afterwards as we filed out starry eyed, into the bitter winter chill, I turned to the Husband:

Well? What did you think?

I'm so glad I got to see him. It was the best.

My work is done.

My Mother Wears Combat Boots

2010-12-20T19:35:00.007Z

Today I discovered the existence of this book:

I want to read it immediately.

At an estimate, I've read about 70-80 books on the subject of motherhood, pregnancy, birth et al. I started about 5 years ago when a close friend in Australia had her first baby. I wanted to try and get an insight into what she was experiencing. I ransacked my local library and Oxfam; hoovering up information much the same way a catfish hoovers an aquarium.

Since becoming pregnant myself, I've gorged again on the written word. But much of what I've read is so bland. I feels as if these books are addressing mothers as a faceless, homogenous group. I find that they don't really acknowledge the Person behind the Pregnancy or Parenting and are very Prescriptive.

A few books however have stood out for me. Ones that made me laugh, made me think or seared images into my brain indelibly. Making Babies by Anne Enright which has the best description I've come across as to how it feels to be pregnant. Rebecca Walker's Baby Love; Emma Tom's Attack of the Fifty Foot Hormones; Minus Nine to One by Jools Oliver, Life After Birth by Kate Figes and the one whose title or author I can't remember but whose description of tearing during her vaginal birth and subsequent experience of a fistula made me keep my legs shut for several years. I appreciated her brutal honesty even though it made me wince.

What's apparent is that pregnancy memoirs are more my thing than the Week One, Week Two, Week Three variety. These have their place and are useful but I prefer people's stories. Even though we humans have been pro-creating forever, it's still a unique experience everytime. Memoirs remind us of this.

That's why I like them.

I Went to the Woods Today

2010-12-19T13:34:00.002Z

The wonderful snow enveloping the country in the past few days has transformed the woods near our house into Narnia...

Where is Mr Tumnus?

The WikiLeaks Broo-haha

2010-12-14T17:22:00.001Z

My friend Jerome and I have long conversations where we put the world to rights. We even formed our own Anti-Apathy Party many years ago but once we got three members, we couldn't be bothered recruiting anymore. I emailed him recently to find out his thoughts about the Wikileaks crackdown. His response was:

Wikileaks is merely a link in the chain of information distribution. The immediate problem is that the dominant paradigm (including national governments, media organisations, corporations etc) have not co-opted that link. It is easy enough to control in the long run. On the input end, a deluge of low quality, low impact info and on the output end, the media that are controlled by vested interests can simply release the stuff that won't harm them (ie stuff we already know - the Saudi's hate the Iranians and don't want them having nukes; UK and Oz went into Afghanistan to make the USA happy; Russia is a kleptocracy. Or tabloid drivel - Berlusconi is vain, Sarkozy loves the USA)

The thing which really is a danger to them is the size of the internet and the effort required to control the flow of information outside of the existing system. It would exhaust them to do it properly, much like any police state is exhausted by monitoring its own citizens. I think as a result, Wikileaks will always be effective in exposing the emperors new clothes, until the 'diplomats' become more sophisticated in the 'art of diplomacy'. At the moment, theefforts by the worlds governments have been pretty clumsy in response to this. There have been open calls ofr assasination or rendition from some US pollies. Putin has suggested Assange be shot and Joolia [Oz prime minister] has called Wikileaks illegal. Wikileaks does nothing different to any other journalistic body. They receive info, they publish it on the internet. I personally think they are a whole lot more ethical than most journalists, but I do need to look more at the site itself.

Noam Chomsky. Possibly "Jeromes" dad in another life?

The charges of rape are interesting in themselves for a variety of reasons. The things that grab me are the timing of the charges, the efforts that international justice organisations are putting into following up minor non-consensual sex charges and also the way the alleged victims are being portrayed in the media and by many Wikileaks supporters as conspirators. Admittedly, they are allegations and should be treated as such, but I don't remember this much effort being put into the pursuit of Pinochet, Idi Amin, Pol Pot or even Nazi war criminals. Sex without a condom is more heinous that genocide! (tell that to the Pope)

It is also worrying that the Polanski effect is generating with people arguing that Assange's freedom is more important that having jutsice done. I suppose the obvious problem is that the Americans have made it clear that once Sweden has Assange, they won't wait for justice, even though it is unconstitutional for them to charge him. They don't have that amount of power. He was outside the USA when Wikileaks did its thing and he is not a US citizen. Therein lies another issue. The Oz govt is failing to offer any form of protection to him, if anything trying to assist the US. No surprise really. David Hicks redux.

I couldn't have said it better myself. Which is why I didn't. Thanks Jerome "Chomsky" France.

That's What Friends Are For

2010-12-10T10:17:00.008Z

Amongst the million and one weird things you experience in pregnancy, the most reaffirming and disappointing are the reactions you have from your friends.

Announcing your pregnancy is a strange enterprise. How are you supposed to do it? Lambast everyone you know in one fell swoop? Let the news trickle of its own accord through the grapevine? Tell only close friends and family and let everyone else guess? Or do what my husband did which was to send out the concise email to his friends :

Lavendar's preggers.

I'm six months pregnant now so the news that a little Lavendar is on her way is well and truly out there. But what I wasn't prepared for is once you get the news out, you have people's reactions to contend with.

Most people, even if they couldn't give a shit, still have the courtesy to say, Congratulations, I'm happy for you.

Some people are stupendously happy and excited for you, basking you in a glow of warm love and concern. They ask you how you are. They don't forget that you're still a person underneath the sumo suit. They put aside their own agendas about birth or children and just wish you happiness in your new adventure. I won't forget their kindness. They get the expensive christmas cards this year.

Then there are the rare few who really don't give a shit and send you this message loud and clear. Thankfully I have only had two of these.

One friend decided that I had wronged her so much that she screamed down the phone at me, showering me with invective so twisted and angry that her words landed like physical blows to my belly. Pausing for breath to mutter, I know you're pregnant, BUT... she continued to vent her wrath over my wrongdoings because, of course, it's all about her. I hope she felt better after that. Did I kill her mother? No. But I thought I might have given the tirade.

The other extreme was the friend who once finding out I was pregnant has just ignored me despite my efforts. Blanked me completely. Maybe she got pregnancy confused with leprosy.

What's the saying? With friends like these.....

Big life transitions always are good for shaking up the firmament of your relationships. You see where the real bonds lie as opposed to where you were just having a polite conversation or acting as a free therapist.

Well sayonara to all that rubbish. I'm middle aged now. Life is increasingly, too short.

Waterloo! Couldn't Escape if I Wanted To! Waterloo! Knowing My Fate is to Be With You!

2010-12-02T11:15:00.004Z

When my life tipped upside down recently through returning to study, being pregnant. leaving the 9-5 grind and being on a lower income, my daily rhythms changed too. I am no longer part of the rush hour commute. I spend the majority of my time alone, reading and writing; words swirling inside my head (and quite frankly doing my head in right now). I no longer have daily interaction with co -commuters or co-workers who formed the wallpaper backdrop of my weekly waking hours for so many years.

In some ways it is a blessed relief. But sometimes it sucks. Sometimes I miss that urban stimulus. The rush of being in a crowd of diverse faces. The buzz of being in a slipstream of Londoners and feeling like a tiny ant amidst it all.

When it sucks, I have a bona fide pick me up. Something that makes me feel alive and reconnected to this wonderful metropolis that is London town.

Waterloo Station at rush hour.

Even during Victorian times, Waterloo Station was chocka-block

It is my preserve of sanity. Slipping and sliding amongst the crowds flooding the station, my ipod plugged in and music pumping, I imagine myself in an 80's video game, dodging all the people hurtling my way. Sometimes I get into a zone where I don't even have to look ahead anymore. Sometimes it feels like I'm floating.

And then all of a sudden I'm out of the station and onto the streets of London and I feel fantastic.

Try it sometime. Make sure you have a good soundtrack plugged in and don't close your eyes the first time you do it.

Rhythm is a Dancer

2010-11-26T10:53:00.001Z

Last night I had the following conversation with a woman in the change rooms at the gym:

Woman in Leopard Print G-String: Are you pregnant?

Me in Ultra Stretch Granny Pants : Yes

WILPGS: How many months are you? You're still going to the gym!?

MIUSGP (bristling): Nearly six months. Yes. I still go the the gym.

WILPGS: How do you find it?

MIUSGP: It's good. But you just have to vary some things depending on how you feel.

WILPGS: Good on you. Well done you.

Phew! Cat fight in the gym quickly diverted to sisterhood rulz!

For the record, I did a body jam class. I find dancing in any form really helpful for me during this pregnancy. Belly dance, latin, african. All the styles that make you move your hips. The baby seems to like it as well.

Belly dance is great for pregnancy, and for women in general!

Afterwards I met up with my husband who said:

Husband Who Can't Dance: What class did you do?

Me: Body jam

HWCD: What?! What are you doing that now? Isn't it too vigorous?!

Oh good grief. I can't win.

Still I Rise

2010-11-21T16:20:00.003Z

The indomitable Maya Angelou put a spring in my step yesterday when I was feeling particularly knackered and fed up with the symptoms of pregnancy:

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise
I rise
I rise.

-Maya Angelou

What a woman!

The He(Art) of Society

2010-11-19T17:01:00.003Z

At uni the other day, I looked up from cram reading in the library for the last four hours and reflected on how lucky I am. The reams of notes in front of me looked hieroglyphic to my tired eyes and I knew I had another two hours at least to go.

But to be immersed in ideas, thoughts, creativity and abstraction is such a luxury. Especially when I have spent year upon year looking at spreadsheets, production schedules, budgets, funding reports and other crap I had no real investment in.

It takes awhile for the brain to gain legs once you have set it free to roam again. Mine's screaming Bloody Murder as it's un-used to all this space to think and dream and create.

Conservative political and economic thought (such as the policies that are running rife through this country right now) believe that arts and the humanities are novel pre-occupations and not in the same category as medicine or engineering or science or accountancy.

So if you agree, do this. Turn off your tv and smash it. Break all your DVDs. Never go the cinema or theater again. Burn all your books and magazines. Take down any paintings from your wall and chuck them. Same goes for any sculpture, figurines or textiles. Destroy all your music. Have someone else choose all your clothes and decorations and furnishings in your house as aesthetics won't matter to you.

Stop thinking. We don't need you anymore. Bad Rodin. Bad artist.

Humans can no more exist without the arts as we can without food and water. We need it to nourish our idea of ourselves as well as to understand one another. We need it to develop as a society.

Otherwise what is there?

The Kids Are All Right...but What About the Parents?

2010-11-01T20:02:00.001Z

I have a favourite person that I love to go to the movies with. She never talks to me during an important part of the film. She never asks me afterwards, What did you think? I never have to worry if she is hating the film and wants to leave. We are in perfect sync, always.

That person, is me.

When you visit the cinema on your own you are anonymous in the dark amongst a crowd of strangers; all entranced (or not as the case may be) by the flickering screen. It's not the same when you have someone you know sitting next to you. How can you escape and give yourself up to the movie when the person next to you knows your real name and perhaps what you had for lunch that day? I'm also one of those people that always worrys if the other person is enjoying themselves. That's why for me, cinema is a dish best sampled solo.

Rudimentary cliched cinema picture

Seeking a few hours escape amidst a very stressful week, I ducked in to see The Kids Are All Right recently. The film had been on my radar for several months. All the reviews I'd read had fallen over themselves in gushing praise. This coupled with the fact that it stars two of my favourite actors, Julianne Moore and Annette Bening was reason enough for me to sit back and relax in anticipation of the story ahead.

I emerged blinking into the daylight several hours later. Quite frankly I was relieved to not have to spend anymore time with the film, and by that I chiefly mean the two main female characters who I found annoying. It's beyond my comprehension why the film has garnered the reviews it has. Is it because it would be seen as non PC to say that a film about a lesbian couple has very unsympathetic characters; one who exerts her control freakery through her family life while the other takes out her angst on whoever comes across her path through sleeping with them or firing them. Both actors fared much better in their other films about dysfunctional families -Bening in an American Beauty and Moore with Savage Grace, Far From Heaven and The Hours. I thought the kids were all right in this film, but the parents, well, that's a whole other story.

Dinner is Served

2010-10-25T19:39:00.004+01:00

Now that I am pregnant, meeting friends for drinks has become a thing of the past. Rather than looking back at those alcohol quaffing evenings through sepia-tinted (or septic as my liver would cry) nostalgia, I've found a new social enterprise du jour.

Meeting friends for cheap dinners.

Certainly some friends looked askance at me when I first suggested that we sup together. I've always enjoyed dining and drinking but not together. If we were out for a session, it was a liquid one. For me anyway.

I've gone from this..

With nausea in check and mouth open wide, I have sampled the cuisine at a fair few joints lately. The Shard near London Bridge for a (suprisingly) fancy curry; Kitchen Italia in Convent Garden who are gunning (I think) to take Strada's crown; supposedly Gordon Ramsay's fav, Donna Margerita in Wandworth for their famous pizza and most recently, The Bedford & Strand in Charing Cross for some old-fashion pie action.


To this...

I have thoroughly enjoyed this new spate of social intercourse. With two-for-one vouchers in hand, I plan to cruise London's mid range eating establishments until I find my gems. The excitement of it all makes me giddy. Frugality makes me come over all frou-frou.

This, however, is not cool.

Let's see how long it lasts.

Not All Chinese Are Gutless

2010-10-16T09:01:00.006+01:00

My dad is a professional hobbyist. This aspect of his personality benefitted me hugely growing up as I got to participate in whatever had captured his fancy. Fishing, building construction, tennis, stamp collecting (I passed on that one), table tennis, dancing and so on. But for as long as I've known him, his love for the written word, politics and history has remained constant.

Dad contributes regularly to an online Chinese poetry site based in Macau. Recently he posted a poem in tribute to ths year's Nobel peace prize winner Liu Xiabo who is currently imprisoned in China for his non-violent struggle for human rights. Dad called today to tell me that he had been criticised and accused online as being an anti-revolutionary for what he wrote in his poem.

Liu Xiabo

I warned him to be careful on his trip to China at the end of the year. I said maybe his phone was bugged as we spoke. After all, he was a counter-revolutionary now!

Here is the poem below. It loses a lot in English translation, rather like comparing an ice sculpture with a lego house but you'll get the gist:

In Praise of the Liu Xiabo - Nobel Peace Prize laureate

Praise, for you have gone to prison with courage.
Not all Chinese are gutless.
You refused to go into exile
although now you are in such a fatal enterprise.
Heaven and earth tremble beneath your dignity
while the termites put on their show.
In the chill of the morning,
I behold your withering statue
as the rising current, rages on.

Personally I think he shoud re-title it - Not All Chinese are Termites

Of Woman Born

2010-10-12T11:56:00.008+01:00

When I was just a wee young girl, far from the clutches of puberty, my mother and I had a conversation about marriage and children. When I declared that I wanted neither, she replied:

If you must get married at all, put it off for as long as you can

and

You won't know what it's like to be a woman unless you have children*

I was just ten at the time but even then I retorted:

That's rubbish. Are you saying that women who choose not to have babies or can't have them are not women? If becoming a woman means having views like that, I'll give it a miss thanks.

As I digested the fact that my mother's dream for me was to become a single mother, I felt my anger at her statement grow.

Twenty seven years later, I still get mad when I hear this nonsense spouted at me. Unfortunately it has been said to me far too often. And always by women.

Does this make you a woman?

In the period after I got married (sorry mum), I got the baby question a lot. It drove me crazy. Some people felt it was their right to assess my womanly status in direct correlation to my breeding status. However when I asked these people if they were planning to go back to work or what else they were planning to do apart from childrearing, it was as if I was launching a nuclear attack. Defenses went up. Tangible bristles appeared. How dare I question the sacred fount of Motherhood!

Well don't dish it out if you can't take it I say.

I'm going to become a mother sometime next year. So far my pregnancy has not made me feel any more womanly. It has made me feel pretty gross in fact. I know there are big changes ahead and I know nothing I can do will ever prepare me for them.

But I do know one thing. And that is I will not suddenly become a Woman when the baby is pushed, pulled, yanked, cut, tugged out of me.

It will be another stage of becoming me.

*To be fair, she did tell people to shut up about the kid question after I was married and told me that having kids was definitely not the be all and end all of life and sometimes it was better not to have them. I was somewhat reassured and offended at the same time.

Student Daze

2010-10-03T10:56:00.002+01:00

Many moons ago I was presented with the opportunity to return to academia and undertake postgraduate studies. I wrote about that here.

Well I did it. I signed up and am a bona fide student again. Part -time. I couldn't quite commit my whole life to poverty.

The campus I am attending is gorgeous. It's like the Lost Gardens of Heligan plucked from Cornwall and plonked into London. Swanning around the grounds makes me feel very at one with student life. It reminds me of the times I spent sitting on the lawns of Bush Court at Murdoch and the Great Court at UWA, chatting with friends and skipping classes. The library at this institution holds more dance resources than any other place I have been. As I am a library junkie that is studying dance, this is heaven.

Just like this woman in the Lost Gardens, theory waffle sends me to sleep

The only thing that bugs me right now is Theory.

What did I expect. What did I think I would be doing?

But why does so much have to be hot air? Why can't some of these published academics say in one sentence what they use a whole page for? Why can't the language be plain instead of convoluted? Why do you have to read twenty crappy pieces of theory to find one brilliant one.

Keep it simple people.

So the wall I came up against in my past studies is still there.

But this time, I'm going to smash it down. Or get kicked out. Or fail.

Keep it Simple

2010-10-02T09:10:00.002+01:00

When you make your pregnancy public, the world around you grows increasingly mad.

Buy this
Eat this
Do this
Read this
Think about this
Don't do that
Don't eat that
Don't buy that
Don't think that!
Don't stand, sit, lift, pull, push, move
What are you doing?
If you don't do/read/eat/buy/choose this, you are a bad/negligent/irresponsible person.

Thank goodness for the one professional who has been a consistent source of grounded common sense for the past year.

So much information about pregnancy is set up to make you feel bad, ill-informed, deficient and on the back foot. Listen to only what you want. Do it your way.

She also said

Babies need very little. A bit of food, warmth and a wipe down every now and again. And love. They don't care if their cot isn't from John Lewis or toys don't explode from every corner of the house. Keep it simple.

Do it your way.

Thank you Alison.

Eat, Pray, Love

2010-09-24T19:33:00.004+01:00

Many years ago I came across a book called The Last American Man.

This real life tale chronicled the story of Eustace Conway; a one-of-a-kind modern pioneer who had spent twenty years in the American wilderness, living entirely off the land. I found myself riveted by the opening paragraph which reads:

By the time Eustace Conway was seven years old, he could throw a knife accurately enough to nail a chipmunk to a tree. By the time he was ten, he could hit a running squirrel at fifty feet with a bow and arrow. When he turned twelve, he went out into the woods, alone and empty-handed, built himself a shelter, and survived off the land for a week. When he turned seventeen, he moved out of his family's home altogether and headed into the mountains, where he lived in a teepee of his own design, made fire by rubbing two sticks together, bathed in icy streams and dressd in the skins of animals he hand hunted and eaten.

As I read on, I found the book did not dissolve into a Davy Crockett style caricature but instead painted a complex and fascinating portrait of a man who battled to live a completely self sufficient lifestyle on Turtle Island in North Carolina and the challenges he faced as a result.

After inhaling the text in one sitting, I made a mental note to keep an eye out for future books by the author. A journalist and novelist called Elizabeth Gilbert.

Several years later, Eat, Pray, Love was published. I grabbed a library copy, eager to find out what new journey she was going to take me on.The journey it turns out, was her own.

Eat, Pray, Love has now become almost a doctrine of sorts for women who "have it all" but find that this does not bring the happiness they expected. I think most people on some level can identify with the beginning chapter which finds Gilbert on her knees on her bathroom floor, despairing of her life, even though everything seems fine on the surface. If you haven't ever felt even a glimmer of this, I think you're a liar or on some very good drugs.

Sadly once she got off the bathroom floor I found Gilbert's story tedious. I expected the writing to have the same forensic intimacy yet detachment as displayed when she wrote about Conway. Instead when writing about herself, I found Gilbert indulgent and in need of a better editor. Obviously I am in the minority with this opinion as the success of the book has probably set her up for life.

If it hasn't, the the film surely will. I went to see the film today. Yes, I did not like the book but went to the film anyway. Why would I do that? Two words.

Javier Bardem.

The film was gorgeous to look at. Julia Roberts was gorgeous to look at, with her usual doe-eyed dewiness and big, laughing mouth. Gorgeous as it was, the film did go on and on. I thought that the director, Ryan Murphy who gave the world Glee would give us some light relief in the form of a song or two but no. Just Julia crying. Again.

Gorgeous. Meet Gorgeous.

I almost cried too, with relief when Javier came on screen. None was more gorgeous than he. Sadly his total screen time amounted to what felt like about fifteen minutes. But in that short time , he made a long and plodding film sparkle with life.

For me anyways.

Back to Blighty

2010-09-17T02:58:00.008+01:00

My five and half week traipse across Australia is drawing to a close. And I am glad. These past three weeks in Perth have been wonderful but back-to-back catch ups have taken their toll and I am looking forward to returning to noisy, bustling London for a nice rest. Oh the irony.

Exhausting as it has been, I feel very fortunate to have people in my life who have made me feel so wanted and lobbied for a return back to Oz as soon as I got here. Loved ones who made sure there was space in both our diaries months in advance of my arrival. Friends who squeezed every last second out of my time here, probably at great inconvienience to their daily schedules, just so we could share those precious face-to-face seconds before my time ran out.

In the spare moments I had to myself, I made it a priority to visit some of my Perth stalwarts. I hotfooted it down to Fremantle Yoga Centre which was founded by Kale Leaf, yoga teacher extraordinaire and who first introduced and instilled in me a love of iyengar yoga twenty years ago. Unfortunately Kale was not teaching the day I attended but I still had a great class and wished, as I have many times that I could bottle the vibe of the place. The studio is calm, down to earth and serene and I always feel a sense of peace and relaxation whenever I attend a class there.

Kale doing his thing

Another must-do was Leighton Beach, my favourite piece of coastline in WA. It might not look like much to you but it is laden with history and memories for me:

I was glad to see that my favourite Freo gym, Warehouse Fitness was still keeping it real with its bare bones approach. I checked out a Zumba class to see what the craze was about but if you ask me, body jam is still where it's at if you like dancing as opposed to aerobics. I also had the luxury of swimming in a heated 50 meter swimming pool again. And it was clean!

Other old haunts frequented included Ginos, Cicerellos, King St Cafe, Clancys and Kidogo Gallery where the current exhibition, Paint, Laugh, Live has been coordinated by a friend of mine. New places such as Wolfe Lane Bar where another good mate has taken up DJ residency showed me the changing face of Perth inner city life.

Wolfe Lane. Where the bar is.

Places aside, this visit back to Perth has been all about the people. Over breakfasts, brunches, lunches, drinks, dinners, cups of tea and coffee, we've talked and talked and talked. I've met children of friends for the first time who now I can't bear to leave and my darling godaughter who I am bonded to as much as I was when she was born, and once again I'm reminded how lucky I am to have such love and friendship in my life.

Home is Where The Heart Is

2010-09-04T02:54:00.006+01:00

I have been back in Australia for three weeks now and it has been exhilarating and exhausting. I've barely stopped to catch my breath as we've moved on from place to place in an Antipodean journey down memory lane.

Sydney was pretty much as I'd left it twelve years ago. There was no love between us then and there is none still. Lindfield where we stayed was lovely with its wild squawking birds and verdant bushland. Bankstown where we spent an afternoon was also charming in a 1950's retreat-back-to-the Orient way. Our family and friends welcomed us in their warm embrace but Sydney still felt aloof, hungover and suprisingly stale. We made it to Bills in Darlinghurst which according to the New York Times has the best scrambled eggs in the world but unless you like your eggs 70% cream, I'd give it a miss.

Melbourne, dining capital of the world lived up to its reputation ten times over during our stay there. As well as seeing old, dear friends, we ate up a frenzy and left the city with bad indigestion. As soon as we landed I hotfooted it to the Shanghai Dumpling restaurant on Tattersalls Lane.

This way to Dumpling Heaven

To my relief it was still there, intact and slightly less grubby than before. Comforted by a steaming hot bowl of noodle dumpling soup, I had a feeling that our Melbourne soujourn would be A-OK. After scouring for bargains at the best car boot market in the world (Camberwell) , we met up with Tim and Cory to feast on Chinese nosh and talk about the old days of environmental campaigining and the election fallout. In the days that followed our mate John feted us with a Mexican lunch at Mama Sita, Spanish churros and drinks at Movida and a ten course French degustation menu at Vue du Monde. As if the sight of two stuffed walruses was not enough to suggest that lettuce was in order, he invited us to dine the following night at his own restaurant Carsons in Yarraville. How we managed to put away all the delicious food coming from the kitchen I do not know. We rolled out of Melbourne content and already nostalgic for the food that we had seen but not had time to sample. We'll be back Melbs, with Gaviscon in one hand and a fork in the other.

After long last we landed in Perth, my home town. Once I see that clear light sky with minimal pollution, I know that I am back. The elements in Perth are what draw me back in at first. The big sky, blue in the daytime and star-filled at night. The ocean that is ten minutes drive away and the smell of air slightly crisp with sun.

And slowly then come the people whom I have known for many a year and shared much with. Last night in a big group reunion at Clancys, I sat amongst my old, dear friends, some whom I have not seen for three, four years. Time seemed to have preserved us in a bubble for it was as if we had spoken and laughed together only yesterday. Closeness really has nothing to do with distance. Last night reminded me how lucky I am to have those old bonds still.

Michael and Mary Leunig

2010-08-07T23:31:00.002+01:00

Michael Leunig is an Australian cartoonist/philosopher extraordinaire. I've been following his whimsical work for years:

I am also a big fan of his sister (?) Mary Leunig who is also an illustrator with four books published: One Happy Family, No Place Like Home, Black and White and Gray and A Piece of Cake. Mary's work is much darker than Michael's and perhaps as a result, less popular. At least that might explain why it was so difficult to source one of her images online. All I could come up with was this book cover:

Whilst Michael's work is gentle and poignant, Mary wields her pen like a knife at times. She translates the world of families, domesticity and relationships into images you can't help but react to.

They both give me a kick, albeit in very different ways.

Alphabet Street

2010-08-03T16:38:00.004+01:00

In 2006, a group of friends boldly embarked on a mission that was to lead them to wrack and ruin. With stars in their eyes they decided to formulate a plan whereby they would tour the world alphabetically, via the portal of food.

On that fated night, the following game plan was laid:

Participants: Four couples of diverse heritage, countries of origin, hairstyles and temperament.

Aim: To alphabetically sample cuisine from different countries, e.g. A – Algerian food, B – Burmese food and so on

Rules: Cuisine to be from a country that none of the participants’ originally harked from or were or had been citizens of. Just so you know, this ruled out America, Australia, Britain, China, Hong Kong, India, Ireland and Vietnam.

Modus Operandi: Once every two months, one couple would be in charge for a designated letter of the alphabet. They could either cook the food themselves or book a restaurant.

Finale: If the group make it to Z in 2011 without committing collective hara-kiri; the plan is to fly to Zanzibar and never cook again.

My spot in Zanzibar

In truth there were more rules stipulated than above but if you’ve read this far, you may be wanting to commit hara kiri yourself so I’ve spared you the fine print.

Miraculously we have kept the momentum going over the past four years. We have eaten our way though a birth, house moves, robberies, job changes, muggings, holidays, overseas guests and a million other life incidences that could have derailed us . We have gorged on cuisine from Argentina, Belgium, the Caribbean, Holland, Egypt, France, Greece, Hungary, Indonesia, Japan, Korea, Lebanon, Madagascar, Nepal, Oman, Peru, Canada, Russia, Spain and Thailand.

And now we are at U as in Uzbekistan, Uganda…. er... Uluru?

The end is so close. I can feel that Spice Island breeze already.

Rage Against the Machine

2010-07-27T16:13:00.003+01:00

I got my first mobile phone in 2002. Prior to that, I’d resisted getting one because there was no real need for me to have one. Working freelance in events quickly put an end to my Luddite status and I was lumbered with an old clunker of a beast (Nokia) that quickly became indispensible professionally. I latched on soon enough to the personal benefits of mobile technology when I moved interstate. Lonely and missing my friends, I found much appeal in texting drunken messages in the wee hours:

I miss yoooouuuu……..hic!

That Nokia lasted me a lifetime. It bore witness to some truly memorable experiences. It contained the travails of moving interstate and coming out of a four year relationship. It saw me through about six job changes. It contained all the early courtship texts sent between me and my soon-to-be husband. And then in fitting fashion I lost it somewhere in Changi Airport en route from Australia to begin my new life in London.

My first mobile love...

Since then many mobiles have come and gone. They break down on or fall into the toilet. I lose them in my own house or they disappear in film cinemas. As another one bites the dust, a part of me mourns:

Every time we say goodbye, I cry a little
Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little…

And then when the replacement comes, it’s hard on both of us. The animosity is instant. I poke at its buttons with disdain and it blanks me. I poo poo the software and it freezes. Finally one of us snaps. I throw it across the room screaming:

I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! It doesn’t work!

But then slowly we start to get to know one other. Hidden qualities emerge which hold me in thrall. I start to open up, trusting it with private messages and details.

A miracle happens. We are happy together.

For awhile.

A Week in the Life

2010-07-27T10:47:00.006+01:00

Sick or not sick, life goes on. Last week passed in a whirl of birthday celebrations, overseas visitors and a jaunt to Wiltshire to visit friends.

First up was a night out at the Punchbowl which is the pub in Mayfair owned by Mr Ex-Madonna, Guy Ritchie. When you hear about these celebrity haunts in the media, you get the impression that they are touched by stardust given all the fuss generated. After spending four hours in said venue, I concluded that it was not stardust that lingered in the air at the Punchbowl but the faint whiff of Eau de Bull.

The charm of the place eluded me but maybe that was because I was starving. I’d ordered the scallops for my mains so when all six of them arrived I thought:

Where’s the rest?

As it was my friend's birthday, we wanted a few happy snaps but the small print on the menu clearly stated:

No photography is allowed in the venue.

Oh please. As if I want to take photos of a bunch of bankers and tourists. Get over yourself Guy. And how about churning out a decent movie one of these days eh?

Dean Street Townhouse where we took our visitor from Oz the following night was pleasure itself. It’s so refreshing when a place lives up to its hype. Part of the Soho House group, Dean Street is a relatively new kid on the block and has been garnering rave reviews ever since it debuted several months ago. I can happily contest that the food, atmosphere and service were delightful. And like the previous night, I did not leave hungry. Only hungry for more.

The weekend saw us winging it to Wiltshire for a long promised visit with friends who have a weekend hideaway out that way. The weather was delightful and our friends whisked us on a jaunt through the English countryside, incorporating the Ridgeway which is the oldest known road in England. We also went to see the White Horse of Uffington which dates back to the Bronze Age and has beside it, Dragon Hill, purported to be the site where St George slew the dragon.

Seeing where a dragon was killed was not too shabby a way to end the week. And we could take photos.

Illness is the Nightside of Life

2010-07-15T13:07:00.017+01:00

Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place.
-Susan Sontag

I think my body is punishing me for running a marathon. Since I crossed the finish line and stopped pounding pavement, my body started pounding me.

Take that! it said as I hacked up phelgm from a chest infection.

You don't know the meaning of pain, it taunted as my throat swelled red and raw.

Here's dehydration for ya, it sung as I prayed to the Porcelain God.

Vengeful huh?

The result of having been sick on and off for two months is that I am now on extended rest leave from work on Doctor's Orders. For one week.

As much as I do not like being sick, there is value in it. Sickness can be a sort of communion with oneself. When thoughts or ideas that you have been too busy to attend to in the frenzy of daily life, have an opportunity to surface. Sickness makes us be still.

It's great.

From stillness comes ideas, creativity and regeneration. I've barely left the house all week yet I've been more productive and stimulated than in the longest while.

As long as I get better after the week that is. After that, not so great.

Chronic illness, the type of inflictions which make people flinch or look blank when they come up in conversation is no-one's idea of a good time. Illness that lingers or has no cause nor cure. It tips a person from the land of the living into a strange subterranean territory where you are utterly alone with your character and conscience.

It's terrifying.

If you recover and re-emerge, blinking and shaken from the long time spent in that murky land, you are changed forevermore. The life lessons you get about yourself and those around you whilst chronically ill are unlike any other.

The challenge is to live well after that. Which I hope, most do.

Because I for one sure as hell don't want another visit to that hard and lonely land.

The London Library

2010-07-09T15:40:00.008+01:00

When I was at high school all those many, many years ago, there was a period of time in which my mates and I used to wag school quite a lot. I think back to this as the start of my delinquent phase which I am still waiting to grow out of.

But, I digress.

Having successfully legged it from whatever class we were supposed to be attending (Home Economics was a popular choice), my mates would chirrup:

Shall we go hang out at the park?
Stalk some cute boys?
Listen to music?
Go to the markets?

Nah, I’d reply coolly, I’m going to the library.

That’s right. The Library.

Now you may be thinking, what sort of freak wags school, a place of paid learning and education just so they can go to the library?

Erm. That would be me.

After my friends had ditched me (after much vociferous disapproval at this library business), I would hunker down between shelves with a stack of books higher than my head and just dive in.

Bliss.

Together with delinquency, the need to read is also something I have never grown out of. I think if I could eat books, I would.

Therefore I am so happy to be visiting the London Library soon.

The London Library is, and I quote this from their Facebook page:

the world’s largest independent lending library. Founded in 1841, today it houses a remarkable collection of over one million books & periodicals from the 16th to 21st century.

Billions of stories are hidden behind those walls...

The library offers a service by which they give a tour to wanna be members. Membership is open to all but is incredibly expensive. £395 annually. So despite the “all is welcome” policy, the subtext is actually, "money talks, the rest can walk". On a brighter note, you can pay £10 for day membership and have access to the library but without borrowing privileges.

I haven’t a hope in hell of gaining borrowing rights but I’m excited still. Posing as a rich person, I will be getting a guided tour through this lush and gorgeous place where Tom Stoppard goes to write and Jeremy Paxman is on the board of Vice-Presidents. I can’t wait.

Oh, if my mates could see me now...

These Are A Few of My Favourite Things

2010-07-08T15:57:00.028+01:00

The germs that got their mitts on me a few weeks ago have come back for seconds.

I. Am. Not. Happy.

Sickness and I have a push-pull relationship. I pull myself out of its fug and it pushes me back into it. It’s like a freaking tug of war. Some time ago, it pushed me into ME hell for two years.

But hello. I ran a marathon. Isn’t that supposed to mean I’m healthy now? Fit?

I am particularly unimpressed to be ill right now because not only is it summer and there are Lots of Things to Do but I have an overseas trip to plan.

Yes, that’s right. An overseas trip to a wide brown land.

Australia! I’m comin’ home.

Ill or not, my excitement is growing. Apart from all my loved ones that I’ll be flinging myself on, there are many places that I’m looking forward to visiting. Places laden with memories; good times and bad. Places that I’ve never been to and always wanted to try. Places that might mean nothing to you but everything to me.

Sydney

Sydney has always confused me with its ghetto-like urban sprawl and wannabe mentality. This time round I hope to make some sense of it. Apart from seeing my dear Grandma and some friends whose kids I plan to kidnap, we are going to Sydney so I can visit Glebe Markets. I am a market aficionado and Glebe is one of my favourites since I stumbled across it in 1998. Back then the hostel I stayed in stunk of pee. This time round, I'm not even bothering with accomodation. I'm going straight from the airport. From a 22 hour flight. I'm not kidding.

So that's Day One. What else?

The Brett Whiteley gallery

Hanging out with the parrots and trees on the North shore

Maybe the Sydney City to Surf, if we can be bothered

The Royal Botanic Gardens so we can witness all the fruit bats nesting in the Moreton Bay fig trees before they fly off at dusk

In these lovely trees are lots of....

...bats!

Breakfast at some guy called Bill's restaurant

Lots of second hand (people call it “vintage” just so they can add an extra £20 to the price tag) clothes shopping in Surry Hills and Darlinghurst.

A wee jog around Centennial Park perhaps

Some fishing with the friends whose kids I’m kidnapping

Maybe a jaunt to Newtown.

That’s Sydney. Done.

Melbourne

I love Melbourne. I love it more now that I don’t live there. It’s the perfect city for me from a distance with its amazing food and coffee, great shopping, integrated demographic, cultural riches and diverse nightlife. I have a long list of must-go-to’s in Melbourne:

Camberwell Markets

Queen Victoria Markets

St Andrews Markets

Pellegrini's. Oh, Pellegrini's...

CERES – best organic brekkie in town

St Kilda sea baths

Shanghai dumpling place on Tattersalls Lane, my kitchen away from home

The Latrobe Reading Room at the State Library. Quite possbily the reason I moved to Melbourne in the first place.

Northcote, Elwood, Balaclava, Fitzroy, Thornbury, Yarraville, Footscray, St Kilda, – all places I formed a bond with

Hosier Lane to check out the latest graffiti art. Melbourne has the best graffiti art and has done for years. Far before Banksy became all the rage.

The Astor Theatre; the best place to watch films in art deco decadence

The Ding Dong Lounge and Northcote Social Club. Melbourne's live music scene is amazing. These are just two of the many places to go see some great acts.

The Supper Club. Oo la la

Melbourne’s laneways – the secret, charming heart of the city.

The food.

The coffee. Oh my god, the COFFEE!

I could go on but you get my drift. I have a lot of memories I want to revisit in old Melbourne town.

And then to Perth.

Beautiful, natural, isolated Perth. A frontier city perched on the edge of the Indian Ocean with a Mediterranean climate. Relaxed, quiet, beautiful and clean.

My hometown.

At Last...

2010-07-01T15:49:00.004+01:00

A very freaky thing is happening in London at the moment.

We are having.....wait for it....whisper it:

A summer

Imagine that.

Back to Back

2010-06-25T14:46:00.017+01:00

The last few days have been a total whirlwind of sporting, musical, theatrical and political activity.

First and foremost, England pulled their finger out and beat Slovenia to go through into the next deciding round. As much as I feared for the English nation as I watched the match with heart in mouth, I also feared for the loss of my Australian nationality as I find myself utterly consumed by GO ENGLAND fervour.

The heat at the moment is a welcome change but it does remind me how ill equipped London infrastructure is for anything hotter than 18 celcius. This was evident on Tuesday night when I sweltered along with thousands of others at the otherwise excellent Brixton Academy for the Scissor Sisters concert. Jake and Ana's return to the stage was a triumph. Hot as we all were, their music and theatrics compelled us all to jump up and down for hours, complete with jazz hands and many ironic, bouffant hairstyles:

Back to Back Theatre have been on my radar for years. Based in Geelong, Australia, they provide a performance platform for actors with disabilities. Their show Food Court debuted in London at the Barbican last night. I'd been wanting to see see them for years so my expectations had built up accordingly. What a bummer it was then, when they all came crashing down. What to say? The piece seemed unfinished, as if the collective had workshopped it to a point and then ran out of time. The actors themselves were fantastic but the tempo and structure of the play let them down.

Note to dramaturg - no need to bludgeon the audience. We Get It. How about some humour? Even people with disabilties like to laugh.

As much as I've assimilated into being a Brit, I was relieved to find my inner Aussie was still very much alive on news that Julia Gillard was our new Prime Minister. And a red head at that!

On hearing the news I was shocked. Logging online, I quickly consulted the speediest news format available to me from Australia. Facebook. A cursory glance at the updates of all my Australian friends confirmed this swift reshuffle of the ALP leadership. There was nothing in the British news about this much apart from that fact that Julia was born in Wales.

Shame on you Murdoch. And you being an Australian too.

A new day has dawned in my (other)home country and the debate that is following fills me with hope. The inertia that surrounds politics seems to have been shaken off for now. A fervour lit by a Redhead is taking hold. Let's see what happens....

England vs Algeria

2010-06-21T12:12:00.004+01:00

I don't mean to piss on an open wound but consider this in relation to England's appalling performance on Friday against Algeria. A comparison of our national anthems:

Algeria:

We swear by the lightning that destroys,
By the streams of generous blood being shed,
By the bright flags that wave,
Flying proudly on the high mountains,
That we have risen up, and whether we live or die,
We are resolved that Algeria shall live -
So be our witness -be our witness - be our witness!

We are soldiers in revolt for truth
And we have fought for our independence.
When we spoke, none listened to us,
So we have taken the noise of gunpowder as our rhythm
And the sound of machine guns as our melody,
We are resolved that Algeria shall live -
So be our witness -be our witness -be our witness!

England:

God save our gracious Queen!
Long live our noble Queen!
God save the Queen!
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the Queen.

Thy choicest gifts in store
On her be pleased to pour,
Long may she reign.
May she defend our laws,
And give us ever cause,
To sing with heart and voice,
God save the Queen.

Says it all really. We are lame, lame, lame.

Have you taken a look at Slovenia’s?… .

RPM

2010-06-16T17:22:00.008+01:00

The past few months have seen a few firsts happen in my life. I’ve run my first marathon, played in my first piano recital and also, attended my first RPM class.

For the uninitiated, RPM stands for Revolutions Per Minute. Meaningless in itself, the term has been repackaged by the Les Mills global sports franchise into an indoor cycle class that mimics outdoors cycling. At least that’s what it says on the package.

The marathon had left me with a foot injury which means that I have been unable to run, dance, jump; do any high impact activity for the past month. To hold stir craziness and boredom at bay, I’ve been swimming, cycling, yoga-ing and pilat-ing but it hasn’t really worked. I got bored.

I needed more variation.

My husband, a RPM fan had been urging me to go for months.

Give it a go, he said religiously until weakened by his nagging, I succumbed.

So at the ungodly hour of 7.15am, I found myself perched on top of a stationary bicycle in a dark, airless room with 30 other people, all there to “feel the burn” Thankfully the instructor, a lycra -clad Australian seemed not prone to the fake cheering or whooping that inflicts many of his type (Fitness instructors. Not Australians). As the thumping music started, everyone around me started churning away at their pedals in Lance Armstrong fashion.

I started to feel quite peculiar. The room started to close in. My chest felt tight. I had an overwhelming urge to run outside and gasp in cool, clear air.

Did I listen to my body’s’ good sense? Did I leave the class before passing out from claustrophobia?

No. I kept going. Why?

Because I needed to feel the burn, baby.

Overcrowded. Tick. Airless. Tick. Dark. Tick. Welcome to RPM

Succumbing to the oxygen-deprived psychosis that RPM inflicts, I pedalled away. Up imaginary hills, around imaginary tracks; all the while humming the tune, We’re On the Road to Nowhere beneath my breath:

We're on a ride to nowhere
Come on inside
Takin' that ride to nowhere
We'll take that ride...

At last the class ended and I collapsed in a sweaty, spun out heap. My heart rate was off the charts. The burn had well and truly been felt.

So how did you find it? asked the Husband who had been pedalling away in his own Tour de France fantasy next to me.

It sucked. It’s stupid.

Eloquent as I am, I didn’t mention to him that I was planning to go again.

Suckerrrrr. That's me.

The Buffalo Bar

2010-06-10T17:07:00.006+01:00

So I went along last night to the Buffalo Bar on Upper Street to hear a friend’s band play. The last time I had been to a live gig, the dinosaurs still roamed the earth. The bar rated well on my personal dank factor scale which filled the night with promise. As the music and beer kicked in and the space around started filling up with punters, I had the same reaction I get every time I drag myself out to hear live music.

Why don’t I do this more often?

Actually that’s not strictly true. I went to a Get Connected charity gig for in April organised by a friend of mine. It was held at the Hoxton Underbelly and featured three up and coming bands which entertained us amply and well. I would have preferred a little more sweaty crowd moshing but that’s just me.

So it wasn’t that long ago. Only two months. Why does it feel like centuries?

Because there was a certain period of time in my life where I would go to gigs on Tues, Weds, Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Thursday the local gig guide would come out and I would plan my week accordingly.

I was a groupie. For gigs. Alas uni days ended and full-time work beckoned. Talk about responsibility being a killjoy.

Gigs are cheap, easy to come by and on all night, every night. They don’t require you to sit quietly as in a theatre or cinema. You can move around. You can talk. You can leave when you want and come late. You can dance. They’re usually at night in the dark so you can look like crap and it doesn’t matter.

I love going to gigs. Why don’t I do it more often?

The Edinburgh Marathon 2010

2010-05-25T16:04:00.013+01:00

Photo credit: Y Luu

Ok , so I am full of shit.

It turns out that I am a runner. A few posts back where I said I wasn't. Rubbish.

You know how I know this? How did this dramatic turnabout happen in a matter of days?

I ran a marathon. In Edinburgh. On the hottest weekend ever recorded in May in Scotland. It was brutal. I suffered. But so did 13,999 other people.

It seems like a surreal dream and I would think it so apart for the fact that I am limping badly and have a very strange tan.

Memories of the pain are fading already. All I remember is rounding the corner and seeing the finish line, 200 meters ahead of me. The end that I had longed after for 42 kilometers had finally come. Time seemed to slow. Pat Benatar started to sing, We Belong, on my ipod:

We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder..

Adrenaline coursed through me, propelling me to sprint. My breathing became jagged.

No, I thought. Relish It.

So I slowed down and took in the shimmering crowds and wall of noise. The other runners hurtling like coloured bullets past me. The blue sky and hot sun. The feeling of freedom, strength, lightness and joy as my legs carried me over that threshold; where I would never have to run again if I didn't want to.

That's what I remember.

Is that how I know I am a runner?

No.

I know because 48 hours after putting my body through that hell, I find myself thinking that it would be nice to go for a bit of a run.

The Cat's Whiskers

2010-05-19T16:40:00.009+01:00

There are cat people and dog people in this world and I am the former.

I like dogs. But I wouldn’t want one. Not even a cat-sized one.

Cats on the other hand, are to me, the very raison d’être of life.

Which makes it all the more sad that I have been cat-less for nigh on seven years. Seven long, lonely years….

This exile is self imposed for you see, I have a bit of a history. See for yourself:

Fluffy - Orange tabby. Circa 1980. Grew really fat on Chinese food. Ran away with Flossy (see below)

Flossy - Silver tabby. Circa 1982. Stray that came and stayed.”Disappeared” on the same day as Fluffy (see above)

Misty – Grey shorthair. Circa 1985. Run over by heartless driver who left him on roadside. Buried under Mum’s rose bushes.

Otto – Grey shorthair. Circa 1986. Spooked by vacuum cleaner. Ran outside. never came back

Max – Ginger and white shorthair. Circa 1991. Had a long and happy life with my parents whom I left him with when I moved out. Put to sleep last year after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Moush – Black shorthair. Circa 1995. Another one I left with my parents when I moved overseas. Still alive. Speaks Chinese.

Rufus – Black longhair. Circa 2000. Another one I left. My parents said No More so my dear friend and her family welcomed him into their home. Human being in a cat body. I miss him the most.

Recently I could take it no more. I applied to Battersea Dogs and Cats Home to volunteer as a Cat Socialiser. What this means (before you think it involves hanging out with felines on a Friday night with a gin and tonic), is someone who spends time acclimatising cats to human company. Cats that are brought to the shelter may have been subject to tough circumstances which makes them surly, mistrustful or just plain psycho. What the Cat Socialiser does is hang out with the cat so that over time, the cat learns that human beings are Good and can be Trusted. Before they get adopted out to said humans and ruin their furniture.

A friend who had applied to Battersea to volunteer as a Dog Walker warned me that they were very particular with their volunteer recruitment. She, an ardent dog lover had been rejected with no good reason it seemed.

Oh that won’t happen to me, I thought. I’m practically Egyptian in regards to cats. The Felidae family and I are one.

I filled in the lengthy application form. I pledged away all my free time. I supplied them with referees.

And they rejected me. The bastards.

I have a cat-shaped hole in my life.

And it's getting bigger...

Why Run When You Can Walk?

2010-05-18T16:25:00.009+01:00

Four years ago I wheezed my way through my first 5K fun run. It was the annual Crisis Square Mile Run; a charity that I volunteer with every Christmas.

After completing the race and getting my free banana and t-shirt, I felt a sense of achievement. I'd run 5k! Roll out the red carpet! Sound the horns! Where was the Queen to congratulate me?

What was a one-off foray into running soon grew legs and took hold. 5ks became 10ks which became half marathons. I graduated from level running to hills. I came to love earth and trails rather than plodding interminably on concrete. Yet if someone asked me if I am a Runner, I would say No. If this person then asked, Well why do you do all this running then? I would reply, Because it makes me feel free.

Bearing this in mind, I must've been feeling very free and easy the day that I committed to a marathon because quite why I did it is at times, beyond me. It definitely was not a long held dream of mine unlike my wish for naturally curly hair or to have seen Nureyev perform. No, my marathon journey was born from curiosity. Just to see if I could.

Come this Sunday when I gather with 15,000 other curious people at the start line of the Edinburgh Marathon, I hope I'll be able to find out.

Just Breathe

2010-05-12T17:24:00.011+01:00

What do you do when you’re alive during a moment of history that pains you?

Britain has a Tory government. There are worse things I know, like 80’s hair and burnt coffee, but my disappointment is acute. My husband is tiring of my rants, claiming that I need to learn detachment. He is right.

Perhaps I’ll detach myself from him.

When I fly to Cuba.

To communism.

He has a point. Life can be easier sometimes if you are more measured and pragmatic. Less idealistic and crazed. Not so black and white. More grey. Or beige.

By coincidence, I visited the Zen Habits website today where this article, Letting Go of Attachment seemed to have READ THIS LAVENDAR sprayed all over it in neon pink.

This is just what I need to help me come to terms with Fascism I thought. I read through the list, processing my overly attached election feelings as I went:

Letting Go of Attachment to Feelings

Understand that pain is unavoidable.
Not true. Alcohol does wonders.

Write it down.
I did. I wrote to all my friends who voted Tory and now they are not speaking to me

Vocalize your feelings.
To who? I’ve got no friends left

Yield to peace.
How about yielding to something a little stronger. Morphine anyone?

Xie Xie. It means thank you in Chinese. Fully embrace your happy moments.
Oh please.

Zen your now.
What does this mean? Who wrote this crap?

After reading I was still angry. And the government was still Tory.

Oh boy.

UK Elections 2010

2010-05-11T12:28:00.005+01:00

Ok I take it all back.

The British elections are not boring. Far from it.

It’s now the fifth day since the elections and still we wait to find out who is going to govern us. Brown’s resigned. Cameron’s stopped chopping logs. Clegg is swinging like a pendulum; trying to amass maximum power in his moment of glory.

A hung parliament is a vote of no confidence in all parties. This hedging that has gone on for five days has surely killed off any shred of faith remaining in the voters. The media, parrot-like, are issuing round after round of inane sound bites to fill in the airspace.

Less than 24 hours ago, Brown stepped down and a two-faced turnaround was immediate. Accolades began piling in thick and fast. All the papers started pulling the daggers out; the very ones they plunged in him in weeks gone by. History, I believe, will judge him far less harshly. I don’t think he deserves all the shit that's been piled on him. It was his misfortune to come to power in an age where the population value celebrity shine and glib oratory, whereas I do think he is a man made of much sterner stuff.

So is it to be a Tory leader at the helm? A man who after his 36 hour, I’m-not-going to sleep-because-I’m-tough display of Putin-esque machismo thought it a good idea for his press office to issue the statement that instead of sleeping (because why would you want a well rested person to guide the future of the country), he went home and chopped logs for two hours.

Of course.

The election has become car crash television. And I hope it’s over soon so I can tear my bloodshot eyeballs off the screen.

Good Luck Gordon

2010-05-02T15:20:00.008+01:00

He's been flogged to death by the media for the past year. He inherited the reins from the guy who took Britain to war. He had the unpopular job of steering the economy from the cliff edge. He had a very (public) bad day at the office and he was crucified. I cannot even begin to perceive the amount of pressure he has sustained and yet he's still standing, determined to fight to the end.

For all their on camera sparkle, I do not think that Cameron or Clegg have the sheer guts that Brown does.

It's hard to find nice Brown stories in the press. The closer the election gets, the harder it is. It's refreshing when something nice leaks through:

Author Nicola Barker in the Observer:

Clegg and Cameron remind me of two interchangeable models from the Next catalogue. Bland, bland, bland. Gordon's different. He's dark, flawed and chaotic and the more people rail against him, the more craggy and heroic he appears in my eyes. Gordon's a true Brit. If he didn't exist, I'd be duty-bound to make him up.

I don't think Brown or Labour are political nirvana. But I think Cameron's Big Society waffle is using community responsibility as camouflage for public spending cuts. In a different economic climate, I might've taken a punt on the Lib Dems even if their policies are a bit thin. But not right now.

The need for a change seems to be the key leverage being used against Labour by the other parties. But a lot has changed in the 13 years that Labour has been in. I don't know about the rest of the UK, but London is certainly a much better place to live than it was in 1996.

Good luck GB. Hang in there.

Some Room Of One's Own

2010-04-30T15:08:00.008+01:00

This week, an article in the G2 reported on several prominent women who have gone public about their struggles with depression, including Marian Keyes, Emma Thompson and Alison Pearson. This development, the article reports, reflects the trend that modern women are as twice as likely to be diagnosed with depression as men. My reaction on reading this was:

No shit Sherlock.

The way I see it is like this:

First wave feminism: Make equal space for us.
Second wave feminism: This space is ours and we’re going to define it how we see fit.
Third wave feminism: There’s too much space we have to fill. We’re knackered.

The article referred to an American report called The Paradox of Declining Female Happiness by Betsey Stevenson and Justin Wolfers which debunks the myth that working women are knackered because they do it all. The article claims that the time spent working in and out of the home are roughly similar for both men and women. However the article states that it is women who carry the overall emotional responsibility for the domestic sector whilst men are more “helpers.”

Is this true?

It's true in mine. Both my husband and I work full-time but somehow the management of our household falls to me. I know that if we had kids, the flow of their day would become my remit. In order to raise a family, I know I will need to give up things that I love to do as well as, to a large degree, my solitude. The thought of this alone is depressing enough.

Is this it?

What happened to A Room of One's Own? What happened to The Women's Room?

What happened?

Kids or no kids, most women I know are so busy they don’t even have time to scratch themselves. The expectations surrounding and from within are so high. We push it physically, mentally and emotionally day in, day out. After awhile, such relentlessness takes a toll.

Look after yourselves ladies. It’s not worth it.

Step Outside, Posh Boy!

2010-04-14T15:28:00.006+01:00

In the lead up to the 2008 US elections, I was glued to footage of the Democratic nominations and the final sprint between Obama and McCain. The excitement and on-the-edge of your seat anticipation generated by the American election process was unlike none other. The world seemed to wait with bated breath to find out who was going to replace the man who trashed America, a.k.a, Bush.

It’s the Brits’ turn now and even though I am a Brit, I am nowhere near as excited as I was then. Partly because I live in dread of the Tories getting in and also because the UK election lead up is boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. There is no excitement in the air. The general feeling seems to be that a change is needed but whether that comes in the form of Brown or Cameron is much of a muchness for voters. The pundits are predicting a close call and perhaps this is reflective that the public is voting for the lesser of two evils rather than the party/leader that moves and inspires them. Because in all truth, there ain’t one.

It hasn’t been all doom and gloom though. There have been the rare moments in the lead up in which British wit and irreverence have shown their faces. Two of my personal favourites are below:

May 6th. Who's it gonna be?

Pina Bausch

2010-04-11T08:15:00.011+01:00

Pina Bausch changed my understanding of dance forever. When I first clapped eyes on her choreography, I was a teenager who was sick of tendus and plies but didn't know how to get past the strictures of classicism, nor the abstractions of contemporary. Pina stripped back the pretensions of form and showed that dancers could be individuals; nuanced and real. That dancers need not be dancing lines in the air but characters that speak, fart or fall down onstage. Her work was poignant, dark, wicked and funny. It influences me to this day.

For all the impact that she had on me, I'd never seen her work live. That drought came to an end when I scored tickets to Kontakthof at the Barbican. The piece was to be performed by two casts; one group aged 65+ and the other, teenagers. I plumbed for the oldies because how often do you get to see a group of pensioners in a major dance work?

Kontakthof, trans. - a place to make contact, to meet, was simply that. A dancehall where a group of people had assembled to play out all the games we humans play with each other. Taking my seat, I was afraid that up close, Pina's work would fall flat of my (sky-high) expectations.

I needn't have worried. The piece drew from me a range of responses. I laughed till I snorted. I wondered what the hell was going on. I wanted to know more about those people onstage. I felt uncomfortable by some of what I saw. I thought it was too long. I loved, loved, loved that the dancers were 65 and over. It gave me hope.

I walked out still a grateful fan and aware even more of her influence on my dance education.

RIP Pina. Thank you for the moves.

Happy Birthday Jimmy*

2010-04-10T21:09:00.010+01:00

I'm inspired by many people. Some of them I don’t know or aren’t real (although Yoda feels very real) but today is the birthday of a real life dude whom I find inspiring. For the sake of anonymity (mine, not his), I’m gonna call him Jimmy*.

I met Jimmy through my husband. They were old friends, having survived their college years together. Later whilst working in Kazakhstan Jimmy met and married a rockin’ babe from America and my husband, well he met me(sucker). They both lured their new spouses to London under the pretence that it was the Land of Milk & Honey, which turned out to be not quite true but true enough for now.

As I’ve gotten to know Jimmy, I discovered that he makes his dreams a reality. When I first met him, he was in the transition of leaving his secure 9-5 job to launch his own online business. He hated what he did for a living and he wanted to be his own boss. Developing and launching the business was a fraught time. He still had the responsibilities of a marriage, mortgage and bills and there was no guarantee his idea would work. Nonetheless he ploughed steadily away, making his vision real. Now he has since launched a second online business; has staff working for him and appeared briefly in the Apprentice! Blood, sweat and (some) tears were par for the course I imagine but he did it!

(This is not Jimmy of course but I feel that the force of Yoda resides in all my friends)

I’ve also witnessed the same application of dogged effort and belief to his London marathon training. Less than a year ago he was unfit. When he announced his marathon intentions, I don’t think he could run 200m without hacking his lungs out. Undeterred Jimmy started putting one foot in front of the other. Slowly and steadily just like he built his businesses, he built up his fitness. When the time comes, the marathon will be another of his dreams achieved.

Our friends don’t always know that we may admire them for aspects and qualities inherent within them. As it’s your birthday Jimmy – I thought I’d tell you. Happy Birthday! Keep on truckin’...

*You know who you are (I hope!)

James Lovelock

2010-03-31T13:37:00.006+01:00

I was a teenager when I first heard of the Gaia hypothesis. In Oz, we learned that the amount of CFCs emitted by our spray aerosols, refrigerators and so on were contributing to the phenomena known as the Greenhouse effect. We heard that these CFCs were creating a hole in the ozone layer which protects Earth from being burnt to a crisp by the Sun. This was big news in Oz, a place where the sun is so strong you can feel it burning into your skin on hot days. Suddenly we all started using roll on deodorants and pump sprays.

James Lovelock is the man who discovered the build up of CFCs and coined the Greenhouse effect which is part of his larger Gaia hypothesis. His view is that Earth is part of a self regulating, living organism of which the human species is but an element. Due to the impact of human activities on Earth, the median balance of this organism is shifting, causing a rise in the average temperature on Earth. Put it this way. It’s as if the human body temperature rose from an average operating point of 37 degrees celsius to 42 degrees. What would happen to us as a species? Some of us would die but over time, perhaps our bodies would adapt, evolve and our species might live on in an altered way.

I went to see James Lovelock last night in conversation at the Southbank Centre. For an eminent scientist/philosopher in his 90’s, he did not disappoint. His brain was sharp and irrigated and his views were not those of a harbinger of doom as he is often portrayed (unfairly, I feel) in the media. His approach seemed based on empirical evidence and he fully acknowledged that science does not have all the answers and is based wholly on probability. He spoke about the need for scepticism in science to challenge views of people like himself. The area for which his scorn was reserved was that of politicians, climate boards and scientists who fudge data in order to affect policies. I felt that I was in the presence of someone truly learned whose vision is before his time.

It was bitter sweet to see in the flesh someone whose learning and advice will accumulate resonance as the years roll on, long after he has passed. I feel sad about this but for many great thinkers in human society; this always seems to be the way.

All the more pity for us.

Thriller

2010-03-26T15:49:00.008Z

I went to see Thriller last night at the Lyric on Shaftesbury Avenue. I had heard that the musical was a tribute to the music of MJ rather than a story of his life. My friend Nancy and I had been talking about going since last July. Finally we managed to park our butts in said theatre seats as the house lights went down and the disco lights came up on four men wearing black afro wigs and shaking their groove thang. A short kid with a natural afro followed them. As he got ready to sing, I wondered:

What’s it gonna be? Ben? I’ll Be There? Blame it on the Boogie?

He opened his mouth and out floated … Music and Me.

Cool, I thought. It really is going to be a tribute.

From there on in, we were not disappointed. The cast on stage delivered song, after song, ebullient and effervescent as if they were singing and dancing the tunes for the very first time and not the 7045th. They sang songs I did not know as well all the hits. Backed up by excellent set and lighting, the show focused wholly on entertaining the bejesus out of us. Good ol’ fashion showbiz entertainment. Which whatever your opinion of Michael Jackson is, is what he left us as his legacy.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it.

The G Spot

2010-03-17T15:07:00.020Z

Lady Gaga released her new music video, Telephone recently and all hell broke loose.

Oh, it’s so sexist, foamed one female reviewer.

We’ve come a long way baby, but you’re taking us back to the Dark Ages, bleated another.

Lesbian kisses and studded bikinis do not good female role models make, was a third retort.

I watched the video to see what the fuss was about. And then I watched it again because I liked it. I found it smart and sexy. Full of cinematic references and designed with all the House of Gaga trademarks of ingenuity, humour and irreverence. Lady Gaga divides opinion like Moses the Red Sea but to all the humourless, feminist-masquerading journalists with their poised talons, I say:

It is possible to wear a bikini and still have a brain you know.

Lady Gaga is a performance art installation come to life. She is Alice in Wonderland grown up and on acid. At a time where pop means American Idol and X-factor producing bland forgettables, someone who can write catchy pop tunes, sing, dance and look like a moving art exhibit is a breath of fresh air.

As is another lady whose name starts with the letter G. After all these years, I finally know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be Granny OGrimm. Click here to see why.

Academia or Bust?

2010-03-08T12:29:00.014Z

I'm trying to decide at the moment whether academic life is the way forward. I have an offer to take up postgraduate study in the UK in a subject area so niche that nowhere else in the world offers it. Does this mean it's a shit subject? Or so cutting edge that everyone else has yet to catch up? And even they offer it, is the uni in question any good at delivering it? The sceptic in me decided to undergo my own research before I handed over my dosh and committed myself to a scholar's life a.k.a. as, poverty.

Stepping onto campus resulted in some vivid flashbacks. Walking past the uni tavern, my tastebuds suddenly craved nachos and cheap beers (UWA). The student union office flashed like a homing beacon; sending out purple t-shirted flares to snare me back in to the mothership (Murdoch). Memories flooded back in a deluge so thick that for a few (lovely) minutes, I thought I was in my early twenties again running around campus, loving student life.

Oh why did I ever leave?, I bemoaned as Memories played on full volume inside my head.

I remember why. Earn Money. Travel. And I had poohed-poohed the idea of being trapped in the ivory tower and not experiencing "the real world."

Well I have been out working in the supposed real world for awhile now and it ain't so great. At uni you are exposed to (well I was in my arts degree) the ideas and thoughts of key thinkers. It's a shock to come out and find that the day-to-day world is run by mostly idiots. And that if you had a brain in the first place, best turn it off so you can swallow up all the middle-management banality or avaristic policies without wanting to kill yourself. Success in the "real world" is about how much ass you kiss, how you navigate yourself and how much you can endure. And this is coming from someone who has mainly worked in the arts, education and charity sectors. Call me cynical. I dare you.

Can you hear my fist banging on the door of the proverbial tower?

As I sat in the lectures I had managed to inveigle my way into, I almost passed out with bliss as I listened to the audible noise of people's minds turning over. Words that I had not seen nor used since I left university made a sudden re-appearance:

Well hello Hegemony, I said. Here you are with your old friends, Phenomenology and Hermaneutics. Where have you been keeping yourselves all these years?

Oh how we laughed during our happy reunion. I still had no idea what they were on about though.

As fun as it was to pretend to be a student again for the day, I am still in two minds. I'm not in my early twenties anymore. And I have already worked in the industry that this degree situates you to go into. The only other outcome for me would be the academic path. To go forth into that tower for a long, long time.

And I'm not sure still, after all these years, if that is what I want.

If the Mountain Won't Come to Mohammed...

2010-02-24T14:09:00.007Z

Ingleborough is the second highest peak in the Yorkshire Dales and my new hiking boots are just begging to be broken in.

High School Reunion

2010-02-03T16:04:00.004Z

When I logged into my Facebook account this morning, I was greeted by a sight so horrifying that it was all I could do not to projectile vomit my breakfast all across the screen.

An invite to my high school reunion. Accompanied by all our yearbook photos.

Holy shit.

I thought I had escaped this particular rite of passage. I went to a hippy dippy arts high school crammed with stoners, Fame wannabes and bogans. I did not believe anyone from my year would be ever be motivated enough to organise a reunion. Or even want to.

Clearly that was just my own projection. Post graduation, I thought we had all run out screaming but maybe it was just me.

As I scrolled through the invite, all the faces from my past looked so happy and carefree in their Facebook profile pics. Smiling alongside their partners and children. Climbing Everest. Dancing the night away. They didn’t seem stoned (particularly) and any bogan-ish tendencies were well hidden.

My high school nemesis was amongst these faces and even though I screamed a silent Nooo..., my finger clicked on her link. Her shiny, successful life flashed before me. Her success was so blatant that I started comparing myself instantly because that’s what nemesis’ are for. And because I am a masochist.

The definition of a High School Reunion is: compare and contrast yourself against everyone else and feel superior or feel suicidal. That’s what these reunions are about right? Who did well? Who looks good? Who lived up to their potential? Who didn’t? It’s like a meeting of racehorses.

It’s an awkward feeling when your high school self and current self meet as mine did today. The conversation they had went something like this:

High School Self: So what the fuck have you been doing with your life?
Current Self: Errr…umm…. Stuff.
High School Self: Like what?
Current Self: You know. Work. Travel. Dance. Love.
High School: Oh dance. Yeah I remember. I expect you’re working in dance now aren’t you?
Current Self: No. It’s a hobby
High School Self: What a shame. You must be doing something else pretty special. You did so well at school.
Current Self: No, not really. Nothing special.

And so on. They talked for a really long time and it was really depressing for both of them.

Beware the words High School Reunion. It’s just brutal.

The Road

2010-01-29T10:54:00.007Z

I went to see The Road last night; the film adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer winning novel.

I had read many reviews of the film prior, all of them commenting on the grim, relentless bleakness inherent. It's to be expected though, when the film's subject is surviving a post-apocalyptic world where hope hangs on a thread.

Before I left work for the cinema, I mentioned to a colleague that I was going to see it. She looked at me in alarm.

Oh no.

What do you mean, Oh No?

You'll need a drink when you get out, she replied. Actually maybe best to have one before you go in too.

All this wonderful preamble fully situated me to come out of the film and slit my wrists.

I went nonetheless.

Afterwards I did not kill myself but instead went for pizza with my friend who had come with me. We went in a slightly stunned state, as if we had been bludgeoned by a mallet, but in a good way.

The film was bleak and grim and relentless. It was also familiar, tender and visionary. At least for me.

I sat rivetted throughout. I didn't find it plodding or angstful. The images and emotions onscreen seemed universal. Questions raised in the film were my own and that of my generation and the ones to follow. Questions about survival, morality, humanity, hope and love.

It was compelling and I can't get it out of my head.

The Winter of My Discontent

2010-01-25T17:57:00.010Z

My husband put in a request recently for me to write some more topical entries.

I like it when you write about issues. It makes me think about what my point of view is in relation.

The subtext of course being:

I’m sick of your navel gazing.

So I thought about what recent issues I could pontificate on at length here. Some that have captured my attention include:

• The recent life sentence of Frances Inglis, the mother who killed her son by heroin overdose. An act of mercy or murder?
• Ludwig Minnelli, founder of Dignitas and his vision for a humane way to leave this life
• The Hope for Haiti telethon (the tag line being – Is George Clooney positioning himself as the new Bono?)
• The dolphin killings that happen in Taiji, Japan as depicted in, The Cove

Whilst the above are all topics worthy of discussion, my attention is distracted by an omniscient presence that pervades my every thought and has done for many weeks.

January.

January as a month deserves to have a blog entry dedicated to it. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve written about my rapture for this time of year. January is a season all of its own. It’s the season of Hell.

As I wake in the morning gloom to look out the window onto another grim and cheerless day, I wonder whether this is what it might have been like to live in The Dark Ages. Certainly the pale faces squashed up tight in the airless confines of my rush-hour tube carriage, look as if they have been subjected to hours of mediaeval drudgery and hard bread that hurts your teeth.

Powerless as we are to change Mother Nature, it does beg belief that people choose this most joyless of times to practice abstinence. Detox? Are you kidding? We already have no light. Why no food and drink too?

I know I’m not alone in my January-itis. Apparently you are susceptible to this view if you are Australian*.

Despite the connotations of the term, Downunder, the country I hail from is not dark (or hairy). The quality known as light is in such abundance that sunglasses grow from our heads.

I can hear voices echo, well if you love it so much, why don't you go back? Or is that my own talking?

I’m not happy about the lack of sympathy. I probably have S.A.D. I need medical attention.

January-itis is a real thing. They dedicated an episode to it on 30 Rock. The song, A Whiter Shade of Pale was inspired by it. When Dylan Thomas wrote those oft quoted lines:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

he wasn’t writing about death. Mark my words, the man was Welsh. He was writing about January.

*Quote: If you write about January you will just sound like a moaning Australian.. Husband …(still)

A Rose by Any Other Name

2010-01-22T15:23:00.009Z

One of the things I appreciate most about having a diverse mix of friends is the different experiences I have with each of them. For example, my mate Renata is a free food magnet. Many a time I have been walking down the street with her when out of the blue, someone will offer us free food. I think she has a homing instinct similar to carrier pigeons when it comes to saving money. Another friend Lupe is a man magnet. She meets men at the rate at which most people blink. Her hectic love life makes Sex and the City seem like dating for geriatrics.

I was out with both of them last night for a night of food and frolics. Renata left early leaving me and Lupe to entertain ourselves. True to form, Lupe started chatting to two blokes on the street whilst having a fag. They came in and ended up sharing our table. As they sat down, one of them turned to me and said:

Hi, my name’s XXX

I didn’t think I’d heard right.

Excuse me; did you say your name is XXX?

Yes, that’s right.

I laughed.

But that’s my name!

You may be thinking, what’s the big deal but my name is not common. It’s the equivalent of being called Hortensia and then meeting some dude with the same name.

As the weirdness of it sunk in he told us his surname.

Get out of town, that is not your real name! was mine and Lupe’s instant reply

He shrugged and showed us his business cards.

There it was. His real name.

Oh how we laughed.

Then Lupe decided to share with us a name that she loved.

I love the name Hint. It’s just so....strong. If I had a daughter I would call her that.

As the guys stared, probably regretting their choice to join us, I told her that she must not do that to her future children. That she must not do that to anyone. Not even a pet.

But I like it.

Hortensia (the male) chipped in:

Look love, you can’t call your daughter Hint. It’s like Mint. It’s like Lint. I mean I could get it if there was some big bloke down the gym with muscles bulging out to here and he’s your trainer and he comes up to you and says Alright? The name’s Hint. I could get it then but not for a little baby girl. It’s just not right.

Duly chastened there was no further mention of that moniker for the remainder of the evening.

I fear the worst though. Poor little Hint.

A Shade of Blue

2010-01-16T08:20:00.006Z

Facebook is great for pilching other people's photos. The illusion of privacy is exactly that. One of the web techs at work confirmed to me how you could get sideways access into a stranger's photos. I knew this already as I had just nicked this:

This was taken by a a friend of a friend of a friend. In other words, a stranger but one who took this photo of a flock of seagulls flying close to the faint moon on average blue sky day in Perth.

It's been too long since I saw that shade of blue....

'Till Death Do Us Part

2010-01-15T11:21:00.014Z

I think about death regularly. I think about my death and how I would like it to be. I think about my husband's death, my family members, my friends. I think about what it might be like to die and how it might feel. If I am thinking about the death of someone close to me, I wonder how I will feel once they have shifted off this mortal coil and I am left without their presence in my life.

My husband thinks I am obsessed. Whenever I bring up the topic he rolls his eyes and groans. Our death talks have become a comedy double act.

I don't know what his problem is. Life and death are a complete package. In one hand you hold life, and in the other - death. I might not even know you but there is one incontrovertible fact I do know about you. That you will die. It strikes me as strange that our society gives so much airtime to life and brushes death under the carpet.

Mind you I wasn't always of this opinion. I blame it on a Danish beatnik hippy called Ingvar who suggested that I read The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.

It'll change your life, he said.

I was nineteen, still young and green. He was thirty two, had a cool leather jacket and had travelled the world so I presumed he knew what he was talking about. It turned out that he was right. Prior to that I hadn't given much thought to death. Afterwards I thought about it a hell of a lot more, meaning that I actually thought about it rather than ignoring it or holding it as apart from me. I realised that the great thing about acknowledging death is that it means you are also acknowledging life.

Lately death has been in my thoughts even more than usual. One of the closest people to me on this Earth has recently diagnosed with cancer. The prognosis is good and I am not expecting him to cark it any time soon. What he has to endure though is six months of chemotherapy and some major life shifts. Having to reflect on his mortality has made me examine what I would sacrifice in order to assist him in the road back to health. What is the fight I am prepared to put up on his behalf?

The answer has surprised me. But what a lovely surprise for both of us. It turns out that our friendship is as strong as I always suspected.

Nothing like a bit of death on the horizon to find out what's important to you in life.

The Hawking Centre

2009-12-30T11:58:00.020Z

2009 is nearly out the door. But unlike T.S Eliot's famed aphorism, I'm finding that the year is not ending with a whimper but with a resounding bang!

Amidst the flurry of christmas, good friends, indulgence and volunteer work with Crisis, I managed to spirit my husband away for a day at The Hawking Centre at Leeds castle. Birds of prey have fascinated him since he was a wee lad and I thought it was high time he actually came into a contact with a few as opposed to watching CGI-ed clips on Youtube.

The Hawking Centre is run by Leigh and Jo Holmes and managed by Mark Brattle. Mark was our guide for the day and his passion for falconry was clear from the moment he picked us up at the train station right through to the days end.

After a warming cup of coffee our small group ventured out into the rain whereby Mark showed us the picturesque grounds and introduced us to the birds of the centre. We met owls, buzzards, falcons, eagles, hawks, vultures and kestrels; Mark giving us a small history of each bird and their hunting abilities. Meeting a peregrine falcon, the fastest creature on earth was pretty special as it seemed so small and unassuming despite its inherent powers. I was also impressed by the tiny kestrels who I learned can see in ultra violet so as to track mice urine from the air. But it was the owls that stole my heart and not even the brutal truth as told by Mark that they are very stupid birds could dissuade my affections.

Barney being weighed by Mark pre-flight

Soon enough it was coffee down and gloves on. Mark started us off by flying Barney, their adorable and very vocal white barn owl. Initially apprehensive I watched as Barney swooped towards me and landed light as a feather on my hand. Magic.

From there Mark progressed us onto Ozzie, an African eagle owl with golden eyes and propensity to waddle towards us rather than fly.
Ozzie in all his imperious glory

Maggie the vulture was next. Her temper was apparent as she repeatedly bit Mark's hand as he weighed her. Maggie was in no real mood for flying and after a few attempts she flew herself back to the aviary and waited for Mark to take her inside. I must admit I didn't blame her. Why should she have to fly around in the cold and wet just for the amusement of a few humans?

Maggie deigning to alight before she flew back home

Next was Brock, a Harris Hawk who gave us a real sense of how swift, sharp and acute birds of prey are. He alighted on our hands within seconds of being called, silently and with little warning. We went for a long walk with Brock around the grounds, he following us from tree-to-tree as he would do in a hunt and being called in by one of us every few minutes.

Brock, hanging out.

Our day ended here due to the weather and safety. To progress onto the faster, bigger birds would have required more training and better weather.

Being a city dweller can dampen your senses and cloud your vision. A day out in the wild weather in green Kent in the company of birds of prey was just the antidote needed to see the year to a harmonious close.

So it's farewell to 2009 with a hearty bang. Not that of a firecracker or a drum, but the sound of a peregrine falcon hitting its prey at 180mph.

To end the year, here's a quote from Frances McDormand as Elaine Miller in Amost Famous:

I didn't ask for this role, but I'll play it. Now go do your best. Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid

Happy New Year!.

Rigby & Peller

2009-12-08T12:41:00.006Z

Many years ago I heard on the grapevine that Rigby & Peller was the place du jour to go in London if you wanted to be fitted properly for a bra. To get an idea of where they stand in the world of corsetry, they hold a Royal Warrant of Appointment which in plain language means that they are the official supplier to the Royal Family. Their fittings are free and you can either book an appointment in advance or simply walk in off the street and wait for a fitter to become available.

I have never been a fan of bras. I’ve always found them uncomfortable and restrictive but maybe that’s because I’ve never worn the correct size. For many women it’s not something that comes as a given when we choose our first off–the-rack bra at K-mart. As the years go by, many of us (you know who you are) just guess at our bra size as our bodies change with age.

Well enough was enough. If I had to wear the stupid things, it was time to find out what size I should wear. Anyone that’s handled the Queens’ bazookas is good enough for mine so last week I went along to the Conduit Street branch of Rigby & Peller for a walk-in fitting. Luckily there was no wait. I was ushered quickly into the changing rooms and told to strip off. After a quick glance at the goods, my fitter briefly popped out of the cubicle before returning with two bras for me to try on.

Don’t you have to measure me with a tape first?, I asked

She laughed in a way suggesting I was an imbecile.

We don’t need to use tapes, she poohed-poohed. We can tell.

And sure enough she could. Although slightly different sizes, both bras fitted me well.

How can I be two sizes?, I queried.

Which size you wear will depend on the manufacturer, she told me. So you should always try it on before you buy.

The da-da-da moment came as she told me what size bras I had just tried on. I was shocked. They were nowhere in the ballpark of what I had been wearing for the past EIGHTEEN years.

Happens all the time, she said. You should get yourself measured every 6-8 months actually.

Well I never. Ladies, do yourselves a favour and get fitted. It’s a whole new world upfront

'Tis the Silly Season

2009-12-01T16:33:00.021Z

Since I moved to London, I’ve come to experience the months leading up to Christmas as being high pitched and action packed. In anticipation of the holidays and perhaps in an effort to stave off the dark gloom of winter, the sheer amount of social and cultural activities for everyone seem to quadruple as does the desire to attend every single thing possible. It’s a marathon few months run at break neck pace. By Christmas, we are all exhausted and fall down post Xmas in a crumpled, sodden heap.

The lead up this year has been no exception, crammed full with catch-ups with friends, parties and shows galore. London at any time offers a veritable feast of rich pickings and in the last few weeks I’ve been to several shows. Here is a snapshot of each:

Michael Clarke Company

With Kate Moss as a patron, Michael Clarke Company is well situated in positing itself as the cool, hip kid on the block of contemporary dance. Presenting a revival of his 1986 classic, Swamp, together with a medley of pieces set to music by Iggy Pop, Lou Reed and David Bowie, Clarke had his unitard clad dancers performing gymnastic, Cunningham-influenced choreography that reminded me of moves executed by the Chinese gymnasts in Cirque du Soleil. Clarke’s ascetic, constrained style may appeal to some but I prefer my dancers with a little more expression even if it means a little less épaulement.

The Blind Boys from Alabama

I have always wanted to attend a Gospel revival and on a cold, winter’s night at the Barbican, I got my wish. The Blind Boys bounced onstage in their sharp white suits and showed us the meaning of puttin’ on a show. Slightly diminished in number (one had died the week before and another had been waylaid in transit), they nonetheless raised the roof with their rich, booming voices which resulted in a concert unlike no other. By the end the entire, and I mean entire audience were on its feet dancing, shouting, clapping, hooting and singing. If I could've bottled the atmosphere there that night, I think I would have captured the essence of joy. Eau de Joy courtesy of the Bad Boys. Hallelujah Amen!

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

When the husband told me that we had tickets to go see Tennessee Williams’ classic play, I wasn’t sold. Unlike him I am not a sci-fi geek so the thought of James Earl Jones (voice of Darth Vader) starring as Big Daddy did not make my head turn. But there are worse ways to spend a Friday night so I went along. The minute the Big Man strolled onstage in Scene Two, a quicker reversal of opinion you never saw. His rich, mellifluous voice delivered line after gorgeous line which combined with a dynamite stage presence and solid, assured acting held me in thrall. Mid scene his stage prowess was in full flight; tearing up the boards and eating Adrian Lester for breakfast. His relative absence in Scene Three left a huge belly-shaped hole in the acting which made me want to shout out, Come back Daddy Darth! Show these youngsters how it’s done! James Earls Jones. The man’s got acting in his bones.

Susie Orbach and Marin Alsop

My friend Cassandra and I went along to Southbank last night to hear Susie Orbach and Marin Alsop talk about women in leadership. In 2007 Marin was appointed director of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra and was the first woman to be appointed as such in America. Susie is a psychoanalyst, lecturer and well–known author, with the phenomenal anti-dieting treatiseFat is a Feminist Issue under her belt as well as the more recent, Bodies. She is also the co-originator of the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty and convenor of the website AnyBody. To cap it off, Shami Chakrabarti, director of the human rights organisation, Liberty chaired the event. In the presence of such luminaries we expected interesting discussion and we were not disappointed. Marin spoke about the complexities of being in a leadership role where she found herself a female role model simply because of the sheer lack of any others in her field. Susie was more keen to examine the psycho-social reasons why women still do not 100% feel they can grab hold of the brass ring. And that when they do, why their leadership style has to emulate that of men to be deemed as “real” leadership. After all, she said, Women have been leaders for centuries as guardians of the home but that intimate, complex style of leadership is not regarded as valid. Why? The night ended far too soon and we walked out, our heads filled with questions and a brightness of purpose that being inspired will do to you.

They say there is no rest for the wicked and that's true in my case as the week ahead brings me to see the sexy man of dance Carlos Acosta showcasing Apollo & Other Works at Sadlers Wells and also to hear the great Ranulph Fiennes, explorer extraordinaire talking about his adventures at the Royal Geographic Society.

I'm knackered but I can't wait.

The Sharklette

2009-11-25T15:47:00.008Z

Aged twelve I watched Gone with the Wind for the first time and lapped it up. The heaving bosoms, the bryl cream and moustaches, the fiddle-de-dees and the severe corsetry.

But unlike the rest of the world, the most memorable phrase for me from the film was not Rhett's pithy:

Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn.

What lodged itself in my 12 year old memory was this. Melanie after tending to Scarlett in labour for god-knows how long (did they have epidurals in those days. I think not), announced:

The best days are when babies come.

Quite why this phrase resonated with me remained a mystery for many years. I was and am not a clucky type. Babies seemed like little wrinkly aliens that cry constantly and made a lot of mess.

Then three years ago my best girlfriend-soul-sister gave birth to a baby girl. When I crept in to see this newborn for the first time, something happened. This wee little thing stared at me and I stared at her and something passed between us. And in that moment, I got it.

Hello, I thought. You were in my friends' belly a minute ago and now you're here. That's really something.

A few years have passed since and my mate and her fella have done it again. Another little wrinkly person arrived today and I can't wait to meet her. The Sharklette.

You were right Melanie Wilkes. The best days really are when babies come.

New Moon

2009-11-21T10:29:00.021Z

Vampires. Werewolves. Forbidden love. Robert Pattinson. It should work.

My name is Lavendar and I am a Twilight fan.

Last night I gathered with several hundred fellow cult members to watch the eagerly awaited second filmgasm of the franchise.

New Moon.

My hopes for this film were not high. They were stratospheric. But as gravity or sod's law dictates, such high hopes have only one place to go. Down.

As my hopes fell, my temper rose.

WTF was Chris Weitz thinking?! Did he not go to film school? What is the holy grail of Film-making 101 people?

Show. Don't Tell.

So what did he and the scriptwriters do?

Tell, tell, tell. Long, turgid dialogue used repeatedly to set the exposition which was unexcusable and lazy. This was matched with poor pacing, as if each script page was written on A3 resulting in interminable scenes which desperately needed editing.

Whilst the production budget was clearly higher on this film (Edward's skin was much sparklier), it feels as if it all went into the action sequences; the only parts of the film I think Weitz was genuinely invested in. Weitz failed to invest in the creation of a dramatic narrative tension and as a result the film lacked atmosphere, nuance and longing. The only longing evident was my own for the film to end.

Chris: Now Kristen, I want you to say your sixty lines of dialogue as slowly as possible so we can make the scene really long for no good reason.

Sat amongst rabid Twilighters who were devouring every flickering second onscreen, the film cinema last night was a lonely place. Locked in my own hellish disappointment, I compared New Moon to Twilight as such. If Twilight was Gone with the Wind on film, then New Moon felt like Days of our Lives on TV.

It's not that I thought Catherine Hardwicke's Twilight was a filmic masterpiece but it was a damn sight better than New Moon. It was sexy and edgy and had a great score and was well cut. With Hardwicke you also felt that she lived and breathed the film; the characters and their emotions. With Weitz, it felt that it was just another job with a few cool action set pieces for him to play with.

To add to my devastation, I found myself agreeing with the film critic from the Daily Mail. The Daily Mail for godssakes!

My downfall is complete. Come get me Twilighters. Kill me now.

The London Korean Film Festival 2009

2009-11-03T15:39:00.011Z

A friend of mine works for a Korean animation company which amongst other projects is well known for Pucca, as in pucca up and give me one! Here is the little starlet:

The company have just sold a new animation called DreamKix which is about about footballing furries to French television. My mate has been kept busy with meetings in Paree and attending French film festivals. What a slog. Ooh la la!

Back in London, she is attending the London Korean Film Festival at the Barbican this weekend as DreamKix features in the program. Also featured is the opening gala of Park Chan-wook’s vampire flick, Thirst which apparently kicks some Twilight ass. I'm dying to see it (did you get that, dying to see it. Oh never mind)

If you are free you should get down there and see what those crazy Koreans are up to. After Old Boy, what could possibly be next?

Tanya Gold Chose My Birthday Present

2009-11-01T15:08:00.025Z

I'm a Guardian reader which apparently, according to the English love for classification makes me a middle-class leftie snot. That said I also read the Daily Mail on the weekend for its trashiness and I buy the Times on a Sunday but read the mags only. If I'm bored I may delve into the Independent and if I'm desperate, I’ll browse the Telegraph.

My loyalty to the Guardian and Sunday Observer is not for its news reportage. I read it because I like the style of writing found within its pages and also for the topics the paper covers. I always keep an eye out for pieces written by Hadley Freeman or Tanya Gold as their writing almost always engages my interest because of the way they say things. As a fledging writer of short opinion pieces (a.k.a blogging), I admire the force of personality and voice behind their words. So much so that sometime in the past year I decided that if I were to write professionally, that these two would be my role models. And then didn’t think anymore of it until two days ago.

Tanya Gold. Role model.

It was my birthday. I was celebrating in an overheated bar in central London with friends. I'd had too much to drink and was trying to be a birthday host which was not going so well. At some hot, foggy point in the evening my mates, Renata and Cassandra sat down next to me. Cassandra had a book on her lap.

This is your birthday present, she said, But first I have to tell you a story.

Ok. I instantly felt more alert. I love a good story.

Do you know who Tanya Gold is?

Yes, I replied, I love her writing.

This was clearly not expected as my mates started squealing in that hyper way that only women and queens can do. I’m a joiner so I squealed:

Why? Why do you ask? She's one of my favourite Guardian writers!

She chose your birthday present! She chose it! Cassandra squealed back.

What?! How did you manage that?!

I didn't know why we were all so excited but we were. Tanya Gold’s ears must have turned purple.

It turns out that Cassandra had gone to Daunts in Belsize Park to buy my birthday present. Browsing the shelves she overheard a conversation between a woman (Tanya) and the bookshop assistant and got the impression that Tanya was someone who knew books. Cassandra is one of those naturally affable people who could chat to stone and get a reply so she sidled up and asked:

Excuse me but I'm trying to buy a birthday present for my friend and you seem to know a lot about books. Would you mind suggesting something?

Tanya to her credit went right along with it.

What kinds of things does your friend like?

Oh, erm. Travelling. New York. Books. Writing.

(note here that Cassandra might have added: She’s also stunningly intelligent, will work for peanuts and needs a writing break. Can you help?)

Has she ever been to Venice?

I don't know. I don't think so.

Well if she's never been, this will make her want to go. It’s the best book about Venice ever written.

And with that Tanya pulled Jan Morris', Venice from the shelf and started to read aloud:

If you take an aircraft over Venice and fly low above her mottled attics, you will see her canals thick with an endless flow of craft, like little black corpuscles.

Maybe it was the word corpuscles but Cassandra was sold. When she went to pay the shop assistant whispered to her:

That was Tanya Gold you were speaking to.

Oh. Was it? Who's Tanya Gold?

Cassandra, not being a Guardian reader it seems, applied the powers of Google and forthwith was regaling me with this tale several hours later.

Renata her accomplice leaned over and looked me seriously in the eye. Well eyes.

You must write to her. This was meant to be.

To say what? Thank you for choosing my birthday present?

Yes. You must. Something has happened.

At that point all that had happened was that I had turned thirty-six and was drunk. But I knew what she meant. Synchronicity is one of life’s random, strange and delightful gifts. It’s always good to acknowledge it.

So thank you Tanya for Venice and the journey ahead. And thank you C & R for brewing up some magic for me on my birthday.

On the Brink

2009-10-30T13:03:00.006Z

It's my birthday today. I am 36. It feels a little odd. I only had a plan for up to 35. What now?

That said, my plan for up to 35 was not a plan really. It was more an attitude. I'll try and sum it up in five words.

Cram It All In. Now.

For as long as I can remember I have always felt on the brink. On the edge of something. I have no idea what this thing is. A nervous breakdown? Infamy? A lotto win? Whatever it is, it gets stronger with every year that passes.

I look around at my nearest and dearest and see that they too are on the brink. My dear friend Jerome is waiting to find out if he has a lymphoma. My beloved soul sister CTD is about to give birth to her second child.

Birthdays are always points of reflection. But you can't look at your life in isolation. We are all connected and when I look around me and see all that is happening in the lives of those I care about, I feel as if I am on that precipice with them too.

Maybe that's what it is, this feeling I've always had. Sharing in the joys, sorrows and day-to-day mundanities of those around me. An emotional investment in others.

If so, I can think of worse ways to feel at 36.

Toil & Trouble

2009-10-21T17:41:00.004+01:00

I am quite a reactive sort and I am often cursing under my breath at all manner of things. The weather. Bad food. People talking loudly on mobiles. Customer service. This is fairly normal behaviour I think, for city dweller in the 21st century. We all mutter daily under bated breath. It’s normal. Isn’t it?

A situation at work recently brought on one of these muttering attacks. A familiar scenario where someone is paid a lot of money while you do all the work for them. I vented my spleen at my inanimate PC screen in a passive aggressive manner. My colleague who was also pissed off had another approach.

Mmmm. Death or flu. Death or flu, she muttered to herself.

I thought she was asking me a question.

I’m sorry? I replied.

No no, I’m just deciding which one. Probably flu. A bad one, she continued, still half –talking to herself.

Give who flu?

Oh, I just have a death or flu policy for a few people, she continued blithely. Just the one’s who push me too far.

By now my anger had been replaced by laughter.

Just the two. What about chicken pox? I choked out.

No. Just death or flu.

And with that, she returned to work to continue her double, double, toil and trouble.

A Bit of Rilke

2009-10-21T13:16:00.005+01:00

I have a great many blog post ideas but literally no time to write at the moment. So in the interim, let's have a bit of one of my favourite letter writers, Rainer Maria Rilke.

On marriage:

The point of marriage is not to create a quick commonality by tearing down all boundaries; on the contrary, a good marriage is one in which each partner appoints the other to be the guardian of his solitude, and thus they show each other the greatest possible trust. A merging of two people is an impossibility, and where it seems to exist, it is a hemming-in, a mutual consent that robs one party or both parties of their fullest freedom and development. But once the realization is accepted that even between the closest people infinite distances exist, a marvelous living side-by-side can grow up for them, if they succeed in loving the expanse between them, which gives them the possibility of always seeing each other as a whole and before an immense sky.

On difficulty:

People have (with the help of conventions) oriented all their solutions toward the easy and toward the easiest side of the easy; but it is clear that we must hold to what is difficult; everything alive holds to it, everything in Nature grows and defends itself in its own way and is characteristically and spontaneously itself, seeks at all costs to be so and against all opposition. We know little, but that we must hold to what is difficult is a certainty that will not forsake us.

And for everthing else:

Have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

A Different S(Tory)?

2009-10-10T16:25:00.019+01:00

Friends of mine are members of the National Trust, a brilliant UK charity which works to preserve and protect historic properties and surrounding natural areas such as forests, beaches, farmland; the list goes on. Being members means they can escape London periodically and go to lots of lovely places in the UK which are steeped in history and natural beauty.

Last weekend, we joined them on one of these outings to Hughenden Manor in Buckinghamshire which is where Benjamin Disraeli, ex-prime minister of Great Britain in the 1800’s used to live when he wasn’t frequenting the halls of Westminster or based in London.

It was a lovely day out. We perused the grounds in leisurely fashion, taking in the walled garden with all its rampant vegetable growth and abundant apples trees. We embarked on a nature walk which took in (so I’m told – I was too busy talking) a German Forest and a monument to Disraeli himself (although I thought the best monuments were the wonderful woods he planted). We lunched in the old stables complex,then snooped inside Disraeli’s old country pad where he dwelled in connubial bliss with his wife Mary Anne. Finally we rested our butts on the back steps of the property which overlooked the prettily, pruned gardens. Sitting in the backyard of an ex-Conservative British prime minister turned my thoughts towards politics.

So do you think the Tories will get in next term?, I asked.

The response was a unanimous Yes.

I can’t believe it, I moaned. I’ll have to leave.

Everyone laughed including my husband whose laugh had a hopeful quality about it.

I’m serious, I continued, ignoring him. One of the reasons I left Australia was because of Howard.

I lived in Australia under the Howard government from 1996 to 2007. In the eleven years he was in power, Howard gave Australia relative economic stability and prosperity and you can’t knock that. But he also took Australia back to a 1950’s social conservatism and utterly horrified me as a citizen with his foreign policy and immigration stance. By the time I left Oz, I felt completely stultified by the stuffiness.

Jimmy who calls himself a right-wing marxist was more hopeful than I, remaining optimistic about the impending power switch.

Cameron will be the most liberal Tory to take the seat, he said, And it’s important for both parties to balance each other out. It’s not good for one party to be in power for too long.

I agree with the latter point but the current media saturation of Cameron’s face makes me feel like the walls are closing in. I lived in the UK between 1996-1998 where I experienced the dying ebbs of Thatcherism just before Blair and Labour took the reins. I remember the slight grimness in the air that lingered on from Tory rule and in the faces of the generation that lived through it. I remember paying to get into all the galleries. I remember a lot less cultural activity. Social class seemed a much bigger deal back then.

When I returned to live in London in 2005, it had changed. It was cleaner for one and far more dynamic and diverse. People seemed to have woken up from a long sleep. I’m fearful that this will change under a Tory government. I’m fearful that the whole idea of social responsibility that Cameron is so big on, actually will translate to a pay or get out of the way approach to social services, not to speak of free access to cultural activities.

In his recent conference speech, Cameron said:

So no, we are not going to solve our problems with bigger government. We are going to solve our problems with a stronger society. Stronger families. Stronger communities. A stronger country. All by rebuilding responsibility.

The idea that all the ills of society can be fixed if we are more responsible bothers me. I look around me and I don’t see many people who are irresponsible. I see people who are trying to make it through the day; keeping their heads up through the daily grind. I find it reprehensible that a government who intends to wield massive cuts within the public sector can turn around and say that it will all improve if we sort ourselves out. What does that mean? Should we doctor ourselves? Get rid of refuse by burning it in piles on the street?

In the self same speech, he proclaims:

We've got to stop treating children like adults and adults like children, which seems a bit rich since he’s been lecturing us about responsibility. But then, how can we take his sweeping statements at all seriously when he goes on to say:

It’s your character, your temperament and your judgement that in the end count so much more than the policies in your manifesto.

Did my ears deceive me? Ever heard of the word accountability David? It has the same number of syllables as responsibility.

I also hope that George Osborne’s plan to implement a wage freeze that will affect 4 million public sector workers who earn more than £18K, also includes him and his cabinet. Osborne’s slash and burn mentality will hit our society where it hurts. Being a nurse, teacher, prison officer or a social worker are tough enough jobs as it is. I much prefer Labour’s intention of pay freezing the wages of 40,000 of the top public service tier and only 750,000 of the mid wage earning sector (or a 1% increase). The cherry on Osborne’s cake is that he wants us to work for longer to help pay for each other’s pensions and old-age benefits. Maybe if the Tories are lucky, we’ll all start dying earlier from exhaustion and not even claim our bloody pensions.

Maybe my outlook is unwarranted but in addition to Howard, I have come of an age in a time where I witnessed how a modern government can completely undermine and shred the social fabric of a country so that it is brought to its knees. Two words.

George Bush

Remember him?

Paula Rego

2009-10-06T13:15:00.018+01:00

It was London that introduced me to Paula Rego twelve years ago. I was on a visit to the Tate Britain and had wandered into the gallery shop as my first port of call. Stacked on every bare surface was a tomb-like, coffee table art book with the name PAULA REGO inscribed bluntly on the front cover. Next to the name was a picture of a woman on her knees by the seaside, baying like a dog at the moon.

Who was she?
Why was she wearing a blue miniskirt on the beach?
Why is she howling on her knees?

I opened the book and sunk instantly into the dark, staunch, sinister, bawdy, ephemeral, fleshy world of Ms Rego; artist and storyteller. There was something about the way she told a story or portrayed an emotion in her work that seemed very real, brave and uncompromising to me. I liked her guts and her fearless exploration of women's lives and realities. I liked how her work presented myth, archetypes and fairytales as part of daily life as opposed to being in a separate realm.

Twelve years later with a small collection of Paula Rego books on my shelf and a little bit of knowledge about the woman herself, I was wandering around another London institution - Selfridges. As I perused the racks of clothes that I couldn't afford to buy, I spotted a familiar figure out of the corner of my eye. A short, dark haired Portuguese woman with hooded eyes,shaded in smoky, blue-gray makeup.

I reeled in shock. Could it be?

I sneaked another look. Yes it was.

There is an opinion that it is never good to meet your heroes and idols. That they all end up having feet of clay. But on that day when I came face-to-face with one of mine, she was graciousness itself. She signed my scrappy piece of paper and listened patiently as I stammered about how much I loved her work and that my favourite piece was The Dance.

Well, she said casually, You should come to the talk I'm doing at the Royal Academy. It's on soon.

I went of course and spent a delightful hour listening to Paula being interviewed as talked about her work. A born raconteur, she prattled irreverently, sharp and funny, littering her speech with perfectly placed swear words delivered in the most precise, lady-like manner. I sat there listening and wished she'd never shut up.

Paula is one of Britain's art treasures and her work can be found at the Tate Britain, Saatchi Gallery and the Marlborough Gallery. There is also the soon to be opened Casa das Historias Paula Rego; a new museum in Cascais, Portugal which will be dedicated to her work.

I wish on the day I met her, I had asked:

What is he thinking about?

Whenever I have looked at The Dance in the past twelve years, I haved wondered that. Perhaps it's good I didn't ask. That way it will keep me wondering for at least twelve more.

Hair, Hair Everywhere

2009-10-01T12:11:00.010+01:00

On any woman’s list of Significant Others, there are usually three to four people. Her partner (if she is so inclined), her bestie (sometimes more than one) and her hairdresser. The bond between a woman and her hairdresser is sacrosanct. She has gone through Hell and many bad haircuts to find him, or her.

On any given day you can walk along a London street and pass a myriad of hair salons, all offering you the world’s best cut. If only it were that easy. Men think it is that easy. They go into any one of those salons and come out happy, regardless of whether they emerge with a five quid buzz cut or looking like they’ve grown a badger on their heads a la Michael Bolton.

But for us women it’s a lot more complicated because we don’t just want a Hairdresser. We want a Fairy Godmother. We are looking for that one person who will magically know, after meeting us for five minutes, how to transform our dreary locks into the Best Cut Ever. A cut that instantaneously transforms us. Cheekbones higher. Eyes more glowy. We want to sashay out of that salon thinking we are Hot Stuff. Do you think this is a tall order? Try finding the person that can do this.

When I moved to London, I had no idea where to get my hair cut. I had no magic numbers in my phone book and no-one to guide me. So it was with trepidation that I ventured forth to a local hair salon. Luckily I had my hair seen to by Mark who had blonde streaks and more potential than was being utilised at the local cut and shave. After a few months, Mark left for his higher ground and I was stranded.

After being hacked at by several incompetents, I went to my Magic Eight Ball a.k.a Dr Google and asked:

Where are the good hairdressers in London?

The Dr proscribed Japanese hair salons. It turns out there is a glut of funky little hair salons in London bustling with well trained Japanese hairstylists who will lavish you with excellent service and cut your hair with the kind of precision they talk about in German car ads.

After a blissful first experience at Ticro hair in Convent Garden, I continued onto J Moriyama, (Both Mansion House and Marylbone branches) and B:zar. Moriyama was excellent but B:zar wasn't. I'm not sure what happened to the famed Japanese customer service because it wasn't present at this place. After my wanderings I returned to Ticro because I had discovered ......

If you think I’m going to share his/her name with you, you are out of your mind. I don’t even know you.

What I will say is this. Go and check out these Japanese hair salons. Cute interiors, cute staff who all smile and bow and cut your hair like a motherfxxxxr.

Mind your Manners

2009-09-21T12:24:00.016+01:00

Over brunch the other day, I was discussing the best places to stop off between Australia and London with a group of friends. Several of the usual suspects came up. Singapore. Thailand. Japan. Hong Kong. The mention of the latter caused one of our group to screw up her nose.

I went to Hong Kong but I didn’t like it. It was too full on. I didn’t know where to go to eat. It was so confusing that I only had one meal a day.

We looked at her in consternation.

Really? You only had one meal a day?

You might think that we were being sympathetic but no.

Hong Kong is a food paradise. How could you go there and only eat once a day? I go there to eat! My tone was almost accusatory.

Another friend interjected before I could continue.

It can be quite confusing, he sympathised. It doesn’t help by the way the Chinese language sounds. It sounds like they are screaming at each other but actually, they’re just saying Hello.

That’s true, I verified, They may have sounded abrupt and rude but they were probably just asking you if you were hungry.

I’ve noticed during my time in London, that the word rude is commonly used in day-to-day vernacular. This comes as no surprise as the English are culturally defined (and stereotyped) as a society that prides itself on manners. Rudeness is seen as the eighth deadly sin. I’m not certain of the historical evolution of why this is so but methinks that Queen Victoria had something to do with it.

This is all well and good but manners are culturally specific and not always translatable. Growing up in a Chinese household, we did not use the word, please very often, nor spoke in modulated tones that were pleasant to the ear. We barked comments to one another, butted into each other’s sentences and spoke to each other in a volume that suggested we were in the midst of a busy marketplace rather than sitting next to each other at the dinner table. Chewing with your mouth open, burping, picking your teeth in public with a toothpick were all norms. Horrendous faux-pas from an English etiquette POV but perfectly normal for Chinese.

Straddling these two worlds of manners made for some interesting situations growing up. On my first day of high school, I heard my name being called by my form room teacher.

What?! I shouted out in response.

He glared at me with his beady blue eyes.

You do not say “What”, he replied icily, You say Pardon. He paused for effect.

What do you say?

Pardon, I mumbled, thoroughly mortified.Why had my parents never told me to say Pardon? We always said What! Sometimes we just grunted.

I caught on soon enough that I would have to modulate my peasant Chinese ways so as to appease the convict English ways of all my friends.

You’re so abrupt, almost curt, they’d accuse. And you never say what you really think.

Because I’m saving you face, I’d retort in my mind. Do you know about that? And do you know that when I gave you your birthday present you should have accepted it with both hands and not opened it in front of me you rude, ungrateful bitch.

I never thought it was fair that I had to adapt to their manners but that they had little understanding of mine. It was cultural imperialism at work in the playground. I had not yet learnt about the term, bi-cultural conflict, which would serve as a handy term to hang my angst on in my teenage years.

Along the way of acquiring mixed manners I’ve often asked myself why does it matter? After all it’s just a code of conduct that regulates us all in one way or another. Why can’t we be more experimental from time-to-time? Why must we frown if someone acts unexpectedly? Why must we judge?

These days my attitude to manners is much more laissez faire. I just can’t be bothered to be something I’m not so I just go with the flow. I can be the perfect guest or the rudest cow on earth, depending on which POV you are coming from and your own baggage.

But for now - thank you very much for reading my blog and please come back again soon. Have a nice day!

He's Gone with the Wind

2009-09-16T10:46:00.010+01:00

It's a sad, old world now that Patrick Swayze has gone. Say what you like about the man and his song lyrics, but he was a marvel to behold when he moved those muscles. On one hand he was a horse-riding, football playing, jock-cowboy and on the other, a pirouetting, hip-shaking, chick-lifting danseur. A dichotomy of sorts but he pulled it off without descending into caricature. He was a man that straddled the worlds of Rawhide and Rachmaninoff with equanimity and a level of grace.

Patrick flickered onscreen as Rob Lowe's brother in The Outsiders before he burst upon us in all his sweaty glory as the tortured dance instructor/gigolo, Johnny Castle in Dirty Dancing. Our hearts swooned when he taught Baby the pechanga (someone tell me what that is. I never figured it out) and showed her how to boogie; upright and horizontally. We wanted him to teach us and would have carried many watermelons and sat in any old corner for the chance.

After soaring into the stratosphere by shaking his booty, Patrick's magic continued in Ghost where he transferred his Art to Craft and swapped Ballet for Bowls. The theme of dirt continued too. By smearing clay all over himself and Demi, Patrick gave the pottery world a makeover that they've never recovered from since. He then starred as the uber-cool Bodhi in Point Break in which he and Keanu swapped personas. Here Patrick was the dude; the surfer- mystic- mask-wearing-bank robber and Keanu was the tortured, trying-to-find- and-come-to-terms-with-himself-Johnny-Castle character-cop called, strangely enough- Johnny Utah. There was not much dirt in that film but if there was, they were always rushing into the ocean to wash it off anyways.

After that, the descent was gradual. We had forgiven him the lyric,She's like the wind, through my tree. We had forgiven him Roadhouse. Fatherhood was pushing it. But when he appeared in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, there was no more forgiveness.

But the love never died. When he announced that he had pancreatic cancer, a billion hearts around the world pounded, No! Not Johnny Castle!

I got to see Sexy, I mean, Swayze in the flesh a few years back. He was in London appearing in Guys and Dolls and I happened to be in the vicinity when he exited the Stage Door. Up close his face was leathery and lined as you'd expect from a man who rode horses outdoors and smoked in his fifties. This made me strangely happy. I don't think I could've borne it if he'd had plastic surgery. He was in dancerific shape and seemed like a humble, nice man.

I wish that before he departed this world that Patrick had given us one last dance on celluloid. Despite his work as an actor his true nature was displayed, for me, when he danced. He was in his element. As the man himself said:

There's just something about dance. It's like a primal thing in all of us.
- Patrick Swayze

RIP.