Friday 30 October 2009

On the Brink

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.

Wednesday 21 October 2009

Toil & Trouble

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By now my anger had been replaced by laughter.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

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.

Saturday 10 October 2009

A Different S(Tory)?

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?

Tuesday 6 October 2009

Paula Rego

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.

Thursday 1 October 2009

Hair, Hair Everywhere

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.