Constant Craving

We are entering Week 4 of lock down in London and the weekend weather has been kind, giving us sun and light in place of muted grey and drizzle. BBQs and sunglasses have replaced jumpers and socks. People are out sunbathing while others are dying.

It's very odd.

Our household, for now, is free of illness and so I have been reading in the sun. Newspapers, books, magazines. One particular sentence that zinged through me was by columnist and author Deborah Levy who wrote:

We will have to investigate the magic of the universe from home.

Surveying my To-Read pile, I pulled out two books that have been gathering dust for many months, mainly because I had never felt in the mood to read them since purchase - Island Home: A Landscape Memoir and Land's Edge: A Coastal Memoir, both by fellow West Australian, Tim Winton.

Who knew that it would take a global pandemic to put me in the mood?

I was less than a third of the way through Island Home when it clicked that the sentences were slaking a thirst I didn't realise I had. I drank it whole and moved swiftly onto Land's Edge.

Both books took me to a place and time outside of corona virus, lock downs and social distancing. They evoked a craving for the West Australian landscape that germinated in me as a young child exploring bush land near our suburban brick and tile home. They made me long for a coastline that leaves your mind blank when you look at it.

I wrote about this longing after my first few years of living in London; about missing the brand of wilderness that raised me. It took about five, six years of London life for the oasis of a coastline to ebb in my mind.

Fifteen years on, I thought I had adapted to my new environs and that the zest of daily London life had put to bed the craving for wild.

I was wrong. It was just subsumed. Waiting.

As Mr Winton wrote in Land's Edge:

In Europe I tried the landlocked existence. In Paris I experienced my first apartment and my first truly dispiriting body of water, the Seine. The city itself was a revelation, an astounding and beautiful place, but after six months I found myself crazy for the margins.

It's no coincidence that during this marginal existence we are living, waiting on the edges of our lives for the threat of covid to recede, that I yearn for the spaces that make me feel outside of myself. To be overwhelmed in nature as opposed to being overwhelmed by a virus.

Something has come full circle. And it's only week 4.

Corona used to be a Beer

Since my last post, a mere few weeks ago, it seems that the Earth has stopped rotating anti-clockwise on its axis and decided to turn the other way. We seem to have entered a new reality usually found in dystopian paperbacks sold at airports or kitsch movies about the zombie apocalypse.

I am referring to the force know as COVID-19, the coronavirus which is rapidly altering the way we live, for now. The core of our social infrastructure, i.e. human interaction, is being unpicked in order to stem the potential deaths that this virus may cause and ease the burden it will inflict on the health services.

Here in London, all schools are now closed.* Citizens have been asked to work from home and avoid unnecessary travel. Restaurants, pubs, libraries, gyms, theaters; all places where people gather in dense numbers to interact have been instructed to close to try and 'flatten the curve,' to allow the NHS to try and cope with the anticipated influx of very ill people.

Squash that peak!

Some people I know feel this social cease and desist has happened too late and that we should have shut down several weeks ago. Others are slightly begrudging of the new social sanctions imposed but acknowledge that we all have to do our bit, whether we have symptoms or not.

In this new landscape, I thought it would be prudent to check on my folks in Australia who, being in their 70s fall into the high risk group should they catch corona and have been told to practice social distancing.

My folks and I are already socially distant, given that we live 10,000 miles apart. We are also very self reliant of one another and phone calls are now rare occurrences, replaced by a family Whatsapp chat. But if a global pandemic doesn't make you call your parents on the other side of the world, then I don't know what will.

Mum answered the phone and after a lecture about mask wearing and asking after the Grandchild, she moved onto the subject on everyone's lips.

Toilet Paper.

I noticed the early signs of the phenomena known as Panic Buying when I was getting ready to leave Australia in early March. Stocking up on Tim Tams one morning in the local IGA, I saw that the loo roll section was bare. When I returned to London days later, I got chatting to a staff member at Morrisons who showed me a photo on his phone of the loo roll aisle just one day before. Empty. He was restocking as we spoke and in light of what he'd said, I put down the 12 pack of bog roll I was going to buy and picked up the 24.

How many bums are they going to wipe?

It's a good thing I did for weeks later, toilet roll has become like gold dust. People are queuing before supermarkets open to try and get some. Corner shops are hoarding it behind their counters, selling it only to 'regular customers.' Psychologists are saying that this global fixation with toilet paper is symptomatic of trying to maintain control at a time where things are chaotic and unknown. A local taxi driver told me he thought it was because people were full of shit.

Freud would have a field day.

Toilet paper has never been in short supply at my Mum's house. She is Chinese and therefore she buys bulk. In a gentler time, pre-Corona, visitors to our family house would gaze at wonder at the Great Wall of Toilet Paper assembled and marvel how we would never, ever run out.

Well.

Due to our recent visit to Australia, my family and I had depleted Mum's toilet paper inventory.

We were down to ten rolls when you left, she reported,'But I didn't worry. All those crazy people. As if we couldn't get toilet paper.

But she couldn't.

I went to Coles. I went to Woolies. None at Aldi's either.

So what happened? I asked. After all, this is a woman who in the 1980s was captured on the evening news limboing under a half open store door so she could be one of the first inside during a Boxing Day sale to nab a microwave that was 50% off.

Your Father and I woke up early one morning and he said, 'lets go shopping now before breakfast' so we went to a nearby Coles. But we didn't know where the loo paper aisle was because we don't usually shop there. There were already about 30 people waiting outside when we arrived.

So what did you do?

I said to your Father, it's easy. As soon as the shop opens, just follow the crowd. They'll lead us to the toilet paper.

And did they?

When I saw where the crowd were headed, I slipped around and went the back way. Got there before most of them.

How much did you buy?

36 rolls. It'll do.

It's reassuring to me at a time where so much is changing in an unprecedented way, that Mum always come up trumps when faced with a challenge. Loo roll or locusts, she'll find a way to overcome.

 I hope in the months to follow, I've inherited her moxie. 



  *Most schools will remain open on a skeleton teaching crew for children of key workers

Spread the Word Life Writing Prize

During a sluggish period with the children’s book I am (forever) writing, I saw a call for competition entries for the Spread the Word Life Writing Prize. Life writing, as defined by the competition rules, is writing that is based on real life experiences of the author. As luck would have it, I had a piece that I had started writing a few years ago about growing up in Australia during the 70s and 80s and what it was like to be the only Chinese kid in school. I dug it up, worked on it and then sent it off to the competition.

To my surprise and delight, my entry was longlisted alongside eleven other writers. This meant that I got to attend the Awards Ceremony and read an excerpt from my piece. I met the other longlisted writers; competition judges; the wonderful Joanna Munro who is personally financing the award for five years and the Spread the Word staff who were super to deal with in the lead up to the Awards Night. I also got to invite my long-suffering friends to the ceremony where they actually heard some words I’d written rather than me babbling on about writing to them but not ever showing them anything.

After we had all read from our pieces, Danny Brunton was announced as the winner with his with his piece, New Boy, alongside Paradoxical by Xanthi Barker and Small Talk by Laura Morgan as highly commended entries.

I had already been informed by Spread the Word prior to the event that I had not made the shortlist, so I knew that I was not in the running. But to me, I felt I had already won; obvious to all that were not blind by the huge shit-eating grin plastered to my face the whole night. Because I think when I found out I had made the longlist, it may have been the happiest day of my life. More than my wedding day or the day my child was born.

That’s how happy it made me. Pure unadulterated joy unmarred by stress (wedding) and pain (childbirth)

What a terrible thing for a mother and wife to say.

But it’s true.

It was a really good day.

It's (Not That) Quiet on the Western Front (II)

If Perth had a heart, then that heart is the port town of Fremantle. From the moment my Dad started working at Fremantle Hospital in 1977, Fremantle, or ‘Freo’ as the locals call it became a backdrop for my formative years.

Fremantle Port

My first memories of Fremantle are eating fish and chips on the Esplanade; a park nestled along the Freo foreshore. Cicerellos was the place to go for freshly battered cod and chips.  My parents would order at the counter whilst I peered into the vast tropical aquarium that was always my highlight during a trip to Cicerellos. Clutching our newspaper bundles, we would cross the rail overpass down into Esplanade Park. Sitting on the grass amongst the Norfolk Pines, I remember the crunchy saltiness and fresh white flakes in my mouth, with the sea breeze cooling us on a sunny Perth day.

Being a port city, Fremantle has always had an outward looking mien. Immigrants from Italy and Portugal settled in the town and contributed significantly in creating the character of Fremantle; essentially a working class immigrant community for whom family was important. These roots of Fremantle’s heritage is still very much visible today. The main road, known as the Cappuccino strip is well known for its proliferation of cafes and restaurants where you can sip and dine alfresco. Gino’s coffee shop reigns supreme on the strip having outlasted other stalwarts such as Old Papa’s and Interfoods. Across the road is Pizza Bella Roma where nightly queues form as people await the opportunity to dine on delicious oven baked pizza and pasta.

Gino's Cafe - still standing 

When I visit nowadays, I find the Cappuccino Strip greatly changed. The street that once held an Italian deli, a butchers, a burial home, a fishmongers and one of the best bookshops in Perth is now dotted with too many ice cream parlours, tacky pubs and tourist shops.  Rents are so high that many local businesses have left. Still, the reputation of the strip precedes its reality and every weekend, the tourists still come and spend their money on ice cream, coffee and trinkets.

The Cappuccino Strip

It’s (Not That) Quiet on the Western Front (1)

Many years ago in a pre - child life, I started writing about the place where I grew up which is Perth, Western Australia. I starting writing to commit to memory all the things I loved about it. I found this old piece of writing today and have decided to post it in excerpts as a homage to the Perth I knew and loved.  Perth has changed significantly in the past five years due to the mining boom. Rampant development and consumerism has affected many parts of the city which I held dear.

So in memory of the Perth I once knew:

Perth

My hometown hugs the shores of the West Australian coastline. She nestles there like a faint diamond amongst the vastness of the state. The fact that Perth is the most isolated city in the world of its size, is useful for dinner party conversation or when someone asks:

Where in Australia are you from?

Perth.

Which side is that?

The west coast. The other side from Sydney and Melbourne. The side no-one visits.

Oh.

Silence.

It’s the most isolated city in the world.

Oh really. I didn’t know that.

Yes. It’s closer to Singapore than its own capital city.

At this point, the consideration that you are from the most isolated city in the world has entered the person’s head. The neurons in their brain come to a silent conclusion:  HICKSVILLE.

Perth is the capital city of Western Australia; the largest state in country
(www.wordtravels.com/Travelguide/Countries/Australia/Map)

Coming from Perth, I’m used to this kind of geographical prejudice. My hometown doesn’t have the international status of Sydney, the unofficial capital of Australia or even Alice Springs, home of the much clambered upon Uluru. People who grow up in Perth have a love-hate relationship with this remoteness.  We dislike the isolation for it breeds cliques and a small town watchfulness. It fails to rate on the international stage despite world class beaches and the best weather in Australia. Perth could disappear tomorrow and would anyone know? But the isolation gives us space to create, develop and initiate away from other influences and trends. It is an immensely creative city with a Mediterranean outlook.

Arriving

When the plane approaches Perth, my nose is pressed up against the window. If it is a daytime descent, the land below looks like an Aboriginal dot painting. If anyone were to doubt the complex physical and psychical connection that the first Australians have with their land, all you would need to do is view the land from an airplane to have those doubts diminish.

The view of Oz from an airplane 
(http://www.japingka.com.au/wp-content/uploads/Marlene-Jap-011996.jpg)

In daylight the clarity of the sky is unlike any other place I have been. The combination of light and space and air forms a blue clearer and sharper than any other. This blue is my homecoming. If it is night, I look for the lights of the Perth skyline. Harder to spot than a vastly lit metropolis like London or Hong Kong, the Perth city lights flare against the inky darkness like a lighthouse beacon guiding the aircraft towards the landing strip. I am always impatient to get out of the plane and the airport; eager for the first few deep inhalations of West Australian air. Dry, crisp and tinged with leaves and sun. Arriving at daytime, the glare of the sun and bright blue sky hits you as you exit the building. You immediately feel as if you have been zapped intravenously with high dosage vitamins.

Breathe in. Out.

Breathe.

I'm back.

The Lucky Country?

Does life get more intense when you enter your forties?  It certainly seems that way. Life and death seem to be more closely entwined than ever, Perhaps this is what happens when you have young children and aging parents?  My friends in the same demographic all seem as intensely engaged, with marriages, deaths, births, separations and illnesses all clamouring for their time and energy.

The reality of aging is that it is a consuming experience. So what part does your environment play?

Recently I returned from my annual pilgrimage back to Perth, Western Australia with two short detours to Sydney and Singapore. When we were out in sunny Perth, my husband remarked:

The Australian people do not look very well.

I knew what he was referring to. I too had noticed that after a certain age, the demographic in Perth seemed to age at an accelerated pace. This difference was highlighted in contrast to London where the same demographic seemed markedly more youthful.

Generalisations of course but that is what we noticed and have noticed over the last ten years.

The obvious reasons might point to heightened sun exposure and the car dominant infrastructure of Perth. In general, there is not the need to be as active in one's daily life in Perth. Walking is not a requirement there.

However a conversation with my aunt exposed another crucial difference. On commenting about her first trip to London and Europe last year, she said:

Life is not easy in London like it is here in Australia. Life seems more difficult over there.

She's right of course. Australia still hold the mantle of the Lucky Country with its space, natural beauty, wonderful produce and ease of life. That is unless you are a refugee, asylum seeker or Aboriginal.

But there is something about not having too easy a life that keeps alight a vitality within.  London is a complex, dynamic, expensive, dirty, melting pot. It is difficult to negotiate. It can be crowded. It is a harsh place if you lack funds or resources. It seems to welcome and shun you at the same time.

It is a harder place to live than Australia.

Which is precisely why I am still here.

Oh Give Me a Home, Where the Buffalo Roam!

Gone with the Wind was a key movie influence in my early teenage years.  I recorded it when it showed on TV and re-watched it so many times that the VHS tape (yes, I am showing my vintage here) started to unspool and tangle.

It was so dramatic and uncompromising. Scarlett was such a definite, unscrupulous, charismatic figure. She knew what she wanted and she didn't give two hoots how she achieved it.  If she'd been around in the 1980's her name would have been Gordon Gekko.

Having watched the movie so many times, I knew all the key quotes off by heart. One of these was when Daddy O'Hara puts his arm around his wayward daughter and points to the enormous plantation house in the distance and booms:

Do you mean to tell me, Katie Scarlett O'Hara, that Tara, that land doesn't mean anything to you? Why, land is the only thing in the world worth workin' for, worth fightin' for, worth dyin' for, because it's the only thing that lasts.


Scarlett and her Big House (run by slaves)

 

This quote has played in my mind over the years when the question of buying property has come up. Daddy O'Hara was clearly someone who believed that you should own your own little piece of home. I however, have avoided house ownership like the plague. Now heading into my forties with young child in tow, I am still renting.

The society I live in makes me feel abnormal about this. Australia and Britiain, the two countries I have spent my adult life in so far, are all about home ownership. Renting is for when you are young and carefree. The goal ultimately is to own your own home as it is seen to make better financial sense. Paying off someone elses mortgage is stupid when you could be paying off your own.   Buying & selling at the right time is critical however. Otherwise you may be stuck with a depreciating property that you can't shift; without sufficient funds to move on anywhere else.

I get the above. I just don't like it.

More and more, I wish we lived in a city where rent controlled living was the norm. Paris. Copenhagen. Berlin. Cities where renting is the norm for the majority and the law works to maintain this. To me, it is a commonsensical way of life. I do not understand the need to own one's home. It's not in my nature, nor that of my husband's. Will it ever be? I don't know.

The pressure is building though. To buy. To stay put. To commit.

Is it time to move again?

Anyone for Seconds?

The past few months have flown by in a flurry of (more than usual) activity. In pursuit of sun and loved ones, we flew halfway across the world with our boisterous toddler barely on our laps. Visiting Perth for Christmas was a dream. A very hot one, but a beautiful dream nonetheless. Fast fading now amidst the cold, grey winter that we returned to in Blighty.

We landed back at Heathrow, heart, mind and body holding together and just as well for we have barely stopped since. Work, study, life have all crowded in as we readjusted to being a unit of three without the additional help or company of loving grandparents and old friends.

In this period many people I knew gave birth. All to their second child. As I heard of each new arrival into this world, I smiled and then asked myself:

Would I?

And the answer each time has been:

No.

It is a question I get asked a lot. It seems to be human nature to jump ahead of ourselves rather than relish what is there. Our few rites of passage (marriage, birth, death) are hurried. Years ago when I announced my engagement, the question on everyone's lips was:

When is the wedding?

After the wedding had barely been done and dusted, it was:

House?
Kids?

And when the kid did come along, my own mother asked me:

Do you think you'll have another?

Given that the stitches were barely out and I was still waking like a Rhinestone Cowboy, I thought the answer would have been obvious.

However it has been nearly two years now since Dragon entered the world. In that time I have considered the sibling question extensively.  I have said to the Husband:

We are putting all our eggs into one basket. It's very risky.

And it is. When you experience the love you have for your child, the thought of anything happening to that child is inconceivable. Better to have a spare. The same being if anything were to happen to you or your partner. Then as siblings they could support one another. That is, if they don't hate each other as some siblings do.

I wonder when people will stop asking that question? When it is evident that I am post menopausal? When I look post menopausal even if I'm not?

And I wonder when I am asked that question, when will I stop asking myself:

Will I?

Cha Cha Charleston!

I've been back at work now for three months and boy, those three months have been jammed pack. As any working parent knows, to work at your job, to look after your family, to look after yourself, to look after all the infrastructure (house, plants, etc) to have a social life, to keep doing some things that are important... you gotta be on the ball 24/7. You have to have the organisational skills par excellence. You need to be Superwoman!

Which I believe all mums are.

This mum looked after herself a few weeks ago and took herself, her husband and some friends to watch Cantina at the Priceless London Underground;  a carnival site that has been set up next to the Southbank Centre.  Cantina caught my eye because it is an Australian show that it is held in a Spiegeltent.  Spiegeltents really capture the romantic, lavish and slightly dark entertainment quality pertaining to carnival/burlesque/cabarte/circus acts of years gone by. The one that hosted Cantina was from the 1920s and looked something like this:



Inside the Spiegeltent during Cantina
 

Cantina itself was a show worth seeing. Dark, slightly twisted, humorous and at times, uncomfortable, it was not your normal cabaret-circus-one-trick-pony. I loved the atmosphere, I loved the performances, I loved the live music and I just loved the sections where the performers did the Charleston.

They all look slightly bonkers. What's not to love?

There is something about the Charleston that makes me happy. I am no expert but whenever I break out into those jerky moves, I can't stop smiling.

So inspired was I by the tone of the evening that I decided to go to a Charleston dance night. I found one happening four days later hosted by The Bees Knees at Wild Times which is an evening run by the London Swing Dance Society.

A friend gamely came along for the ride and after a swift drink at the local pub, we found ourselves flapping and swinging, twisting and kicking in a underground basement that looked like a studio den from the 1970's. Our teacher taught us a whole routine and whilst her teaching manner was a bit under par; the moves she taught us were pure 1920s jazz, baby!

It was a big dose of performance and dance bliss. Something I sorely needed and won't neglect for too long again.







 

Where the Wild Things Are

When I lived in London in the mid nineties, I spent the first few months staying with a friend in Westerham; a small village in Kent. I arrived during a season where Kent was green and lush and I realised why the county is called The Garden Of England. I spent many hours walking in fields and woodlands, all the while marvelling how innocuous the environment was. As an Australian fresh off the plane, I couldn't quite get my head around the fact that there seemingly was nothing in the woods that could kill me.

Nowadays I live in a  green part of London. I am within walking distance to one of the best wild commons in the city. There are many lovely parks close by to go and visit. The streets where I live are thick with trees and flowers. Flora and fauna reside in abundance. Wild foxes roam the streets in broad daylight. The local riding school sees a calvacade of horses and ponies parade up the main street most weekends with young girls (mainly) hanging on for dear life.  Dogs of all shapes and sizes lollop through the common in a frenzy of unbridled joy at being out in a wide, open space. It is not a barren, urban landscape I live in.

It is all perfectly lovely. Yet something is missing.

During that time in Kent all those years ago, I read The Riders by Australian author, Tim Winton. In there I found a paragraph about the English landscape that I've never forgotten. Written from the point of view of a man surveying a rural English landscape, it sums up what is missing for me right now:

Lanes and hedges and strands of timber and boggy bordeens went out at all angles under his gaze as the wind tore his hair.  From here it all seemed orderly enough, leading, as it did to and from this very spot in every direction.  It was a small, tooled, and cross-hatched country, simple, so amazingly simple from above. Every field had a name, every path a stile. Every thing imaginable had been done or tried out there. It wasn't the feeling you had looking out on his own land. In Australia you looked out and saw the possible, the spaces, the maybes. Here the wilderness was pressed into something else; into what had already been.

I miss this view

The possible, the spaces, the maybes.

Arguably all wilderness has the above within it.

I just miss the brand I grew up with.




  

The Trip of a Lifetime

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

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.

Full as a Goog

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.

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.

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.

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....