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