A Merry Crisis Christmas

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

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

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

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

Where is Mr Tumnus?

That's What Friends Are For

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!

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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.

Eat, Pray, Love

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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

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?