Turn the Other Cheek

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It makes me wonder what our friendship was really about.

Turns out it was about them.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

Happy Birthday Jimmy*

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

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

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

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

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

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

*You know who you are (I hope!)

A Rose by Any Other Name

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

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

Hi, my name’s XXX

I didn’t think I’d heard right.

Excuse me; did you say your name is XXX?

Yes, that’s right.

I laughed.

But that’s my name!

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

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

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

He shrugged and showed us his business cards.

There it was. His real name.

Oh how we laughed.

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

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

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

But I like it.

Hortensia (the male) chipped in:

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

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

I fear the worst though. Poor little Hint.

'Till Death Do Us Part

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

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

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

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


It'll change your life, he said.

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

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

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

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

The Sharklette

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


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

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

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

The best days are when babies come.

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

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

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

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

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

On the Brink

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

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

Cram It All In. Now.

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

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

Birthdays are always points of reflection. But you can't look at your life in isolation. We are all connected and when I look around me and see all that is happening in the lives of those I care about, I feel as if I am on that precipice with them too.

Maybe that's what it is, this feeling I've always had. Sharing in the joys, sorrows and day-to-day mundanities of those around me. An emotional investment in others.

If so, I can think of worse ways to feel at 36.

A Different S(Tory)?

Friends of mine are members of the National Trust, a brilliant UK charity which works to preserve and protect historic properties and surrounding natural areas such as forests, beaches, farmland; the list goes on. Being members means they can escape London periodically and go to lots of lovely places in the UK which are steeped in history and natural beauty.

Last weekend, we joined them on one of these outings to Hughenden Manor in Buckinghamshire which is where Benjamin Disraeli, ex-prime minister of Great Britain in the 1800’s used to live when he wasn’t frequenting the halls of Westminster or based in London.


It was a lovely day out. We perused the grounds in leisurely fashion, taking in the walled garden with all its rampant vegetable growth and abundant apples trees. We embarked on a nature walk which took in (so I’m told – I was too busy talking) a German Forest and a monument to Disraeli himself (although I thought the best monuments were the wonderful woods he planted). We lunched in the old stables complex,then snooped inside Disraeli’s old country pad where he dwelled in connubial bliss with his wife Mary Anne. Finally we rested our butts on the back steps of the property which overlooked the prettily, pruned gardens. Sitting in the backyard of an ex-Conservative British prime minister turned my thoughts towards politics.

So do you think the Tories will get in next term?, I asked.

The response was a unanimous Yes.

I can’t believe it, I moaned. I’ll have to leave.

Everyone laughed including my husband whose laugh had a hopeful quality about it.

I’m serious, I continued, ignoring him. One of the reasons I left Australia was because of Howard.

I lived in Australia under the Howard government from 1996 to 2007. In the eleven years he was in power, Howard gave Australia relative economic stability and prosperity and you can’t knock that. But he also took Australia back to a 1950’s social conservatism and utterly horrified me as a citizen with his foreign policy and immigration stance. By the time I left Oz, I felt completely stultified by the stuffiness.

Jimmy who calls himself a right-wing marxist was more hopeful than I, remaining optimistic about the impending power switch.

Cameron will be the most liberal Tory to take the seat, he said, And it’s important for both parties to balance each other out. It’s not good for one party to be in power for too long.

I agree with the latter point but the current media saturation of Cameron’s face makes me feel like the walls are closing in. I lived in the UK between 1996-1998 where I experienced the dying ebbs of Thatcherism just before Blair and Labour took the reins. I remember the slight grimness in the air that lingered on from Tory rule and in the faces of the generation that lived through it. I remember paying to get into all the galleries. I remember a lot less cultural activity. Social class seemed a much bigger deal back then.

When I returned to live in London in 2005, it had changed. It was cleaner for one and far more dynamic and diverse. People seemed to have woken up from a long sleep. I’m fearful that this will change under a Tory government. I’m fearful that the whole idea of social responsibility that Cameron is so big on, actually will translate to a pay or get out of the way approach to social services, not to speak of free access to cultural activities.

In his recent conference speech, Cameron said:

So no, we are not going to solve our problems with bigger government. We are going to solve our problems with a stronger society. Stronger families. Stronger communities. A stronger country. All by rebuilding responsibility.

The idea that all the ills of society can be fixed if we are more responsible bothers me. I look around me and I don’t see many people who are irresponsible. I see people who are trying to make it through the day; keeping their heads up through the daily grind. I find it reprehensible that a government who intends to wield massive cuts within the public sector can turn around and say that it will all improve if we sort ourselves out. What does that mean? Should we doctor ourselves? Get rid of refuse by burning it in piles on the street?

In the self same speech, he proclaims:

We've got to stop treating children like adults and adults like children, which seems a bit rich since he’s been lecturing us about responsibility. But then, how can we take his sweeping statements at all seriously when he goes on to say:

It’s your character, your temperament and your judgement that in the end count so much more than the policies in your manifesto.

Did my ears deceive me? Ever heard of the word accountability David? It has the same number of syllables as responsibility.

I also hope that George Osborne’s plan to implement a wage freeze that will affect 4 million public sector workers who earn more than £18K, also includes him and his cabinet. Osborne’s slash and burn mentality will hit our society where it hurts. Being a nurse, teacher, prison officer or a social worker are tough enough jobs as it is. I much prefer Labour’s intention of pay freezing the wages of 40,000 of the top public service tier and only 750,000 of the mid wage earning sector (or a 1% increase). The cherry on Osborne’s cake is that he wants us to work for longer to help pay for each other’s pensions and old-age benefits. Maybe if the Tories are lucky, we’ll all start dying earlier from exhaustion and not even claim our bloody pensions.

Maybe my outlook is unwarranted but in addition to Howard, I have come of an age in a time where I witnessed how a modern government can completely undermine and shred the social fabric of a country so that it is brought to its knees. Two words.

George Bush


Remember him?

Auf Wiedersehen Mein Herr

Last weekend, I was sitting around a dining table with some friends in a post-dinner party-food-and-drink coma. It was late in the evening and we had all drank and supped to our hearts content. Conversation was at a low ebb and that point in the night where we all peeled off and slipped away seemed fast approaching. Then out of the blue, someone said:

If you could go back in time and kill Hitler as a three year old, would you do it?

I can't remember who the question was directed at but all of us became animated at once. It was as if we'd all had a IV shot of Red Bull into our brains. My first question was:

Does it matter how we kill him? Are there rules?

The discussion that followed was fast and furious. Some of us (well actually, only two of us) didn't hesitate in agreeing to kill a kid in order to save many more. Others believed that you should not change the course of history the argument being that history is not fixed. By killing Hitler it could jettison other key past moments which incrementally have led to the evolution of our group sitting around the dinner table that very night. One person opted for a compromise. She would top him once he became a teenager.

We discussed the points for hours, invigorated by more wine and possibly drunk on the idea of time travel and a moment of such absolute power and responsibility. Intoxicating.

In the next week I posed the question at work. Once again everyone re-acted as if stunned by Tasers.

No, no, no. I could never kill a child.
Not even if you knew that child was going to grow up and commit genocide?
No. I would encourage him to get involved in the arts instead.

The arts? The arts?

I work in the arts. It makes me want to kill. All of us in the office want to kill daily. Kill artists. All of them. Apart from one or two who we might keep as pets.

I reminded her of this fact.

Hmm. Valid point. Maybe I'd just break his arms and legs instead.

Of course. A quadriplegic meglomaniac with an identity crisis. So much better indeed.

Are Words Not Enough?

I was in conversation with a friend recently, talking about the power of ideas and words. She was of the opinion that all the theories and ideas and words in the world are useless if they are not applicable. If they cannot be used in some practical way. For her, the power inherent within words can only be unleashed if they cause some sort of an action or impulse.

Is this true?

I thought about our conversation for several days afterwards. I decided that I disagreed with her.

I think the purity of creating and sculpting a vision, idea or theory using words is far too precious to be compromised in terms of what the outcome will be. Like any creative or scholarly endeavour, if you concentrate too much on what the outcome will be, you are not present and engaged in the process.

Sure enough a lot of times the outcome is crap and no good and that is why drafts and editing, revision and breathing space are so important. But that comes later. It comes after you have let the words out.

Sometimes the power of words cannot be measured by a tangible outcome. Today I read The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock for the umpteenth time. Whenever I am feeling unsure about work and career and fate, I find solace in the evocation of desire, despair, melancholy and lingering hope that T.S. Eliot gave to the world through that poem. It makes me feel more human and not so alone.

...There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

How could anyone think that words alone are not enough?

All the Single Ladies...

In my social and work circles I am surrounded by single women in their mid twenties to late thirties and the one thing they all have in common is that they worry about not having met a partner. Not being in a relationship and what this means if they want kids. When I sit and talk with them about it, I can feel their anxiety and pain.

What's wrong with me? they say. Why can't I meet anyone?

I don't know how to answer them. Because sitting in front of me is an intelligent, accomplished, beautiful, funny, down-to-earth woman.

Don't worry about it I eventually mumble, It'll happen.

But inside me is rage and anger. Why do my friends have to feel this way? Why do they denigrate themselves because of it?

Where does this pressure come from? Biology? Society? The Joneses?

My husband and I had a debate recently about this very issue. He said the pressure came from other women.

Well not from me it doesn't I replied.

But I take his point. What women wear. What women do. What women want. It's the sisterhood that is kicking us up the bum. In our strive to be superwomen, we set an impossibly high standard for all of us. We'll end us killing ourselves if not each other.

C'mon ladies. Let's just hang out. Like we used to.

Nail the Bastards!

My mate Jerome is having a hard time with his employers. They are diddling him around a treat and after a long and ranty phone conversation, we decided that he would launch a one man campaign against them. We decided to call this the Nail the Bastards! campaign.

You might want to know who these employers are who have elicited such eloquent ferocity? Well I can't say specifically but what I can say is that Jerome works as a public servant. I am very biased when it comes to the public sector. I don't have a high opinion of it having toiled for a local council for two years. I have a strong opinion and that opinion is that it is bad. My opinion is that if you must work within the public sector- get in, get skilled up, get out.

So although I was sorry to hear of Jerome's troubles, I was not at all surprised that he was having them given who his employers are. Still, I was livid for him and determined that he didn't take it lying down:

You gotta be focused and get what you want, I lectured. Don't take no for an answer. This is a battle and you have to be prepared to fight. Listen to me - are you prepared to fight. You can't let them get away with this. You are a one-man campaign you understand? This is a war that you are going to win. Are you listening? This is WAR.

By this time Jerome had been listening to my ranting for well over an hour but still he complied:

I'm going to nail the bastards.

And hence, the revolution is on.

Dream Mail

Whenever I have an especially vivid dream about someone, I see it as a sign for me to get in contact with them, if I am in contact with them. Life doesn't always allow this to happen of course. I had a dream about Obama awhile ago but unlike Scarlett Johannsson, I'm not gonna try email the guy.

Recently, I've been part of a dream mail sequence. Last week my friend Sophia got in touch to tell me about a dream she'd had about visiting me in London. It was vivid, real and a bit disturbing so she texted me to tell me about it. Yesterday I emailed my friend CJ in Perth because of a dream I'd had in which I was checking to see how she was settling in back at home after a six month travel adventure. Today I got an email from my friend Mack in Canberra. The opening line of his email was that he had had a dream about having coffee with me in London and then realised that we were actually having coffee in Ginos in Perth. So he got in touch.

There's something reassuring to me that in a time where email and internet are king and queen and all the post you ever get in your letterbox are bills, that reaching out to someone can be determined by your dreams.

I think that's a good definition of the word lovely.

Give and Take

I don't know what it is about me at the moment but I seem to be surrounded by young women (and by that I mean younger than me in their late 20's, early 30's) who just want to talk to me. About themselves. Endlessly.

I saw a friend recently whom I have not seen for a very long time. She is a delight but during our catchup, she talked about herself non-stop. I don't think I even needed to be there.

Another friend cornered me the other day to spill her ongoing tale of woe. It's not the first time and it won't be the last. I don't think she listened or heard anything I said. I think she just wanted a face to talk to.

My neighbour loves to talk too. At me. By me. To me. But not really with me.

I'm getting a bit fed up with all this. I'm a curious person and I genuinely like to get inside another person's heart and mind so that I can understand where they are coming from. But this pattern is starting to bug me.

Sometimes when I'm in this situation I feel like that other person is trying to suck up all my energy. That I have something that they want.

For god sakes - what on earth could I have that they want!?

So I took a step back from it all and remembered. I remembered when I was like them. Younger, unsure and trying to figure it all out. Continuously on the brink of something but never knowing what that something was and not knowing how to get it. I remembered when I was in the company of an older, sympathetic ear. I remember how I used to blab about myself non stop and never stopped to ask that person:

By the way - how are you? What's going on in your life?

What goes around comes around.

But that's not what I wanted to say.

What I wanted to say was that to those men and women who listened and listened and advised and nurtured and helped guide me through those woolly, wilderness years. Thank You. From the bottom of my woolly, wild heart. Bless you.

Can You Hear Me?

I spoke to my goddaughter today over webcam. She is two and a half and I am thirty five so we had a kind of schizophrenic dialogue which went something like this:

Me: Hello Emily. What did you do today?
Emily: (chewing on her teddy bear’s head). Grrr. ...Aiowwwwwwwww. Hellooooooo
Me: Why are you chewing on your bear’s head? Are you hungry?
Emily: Hello Hello Hello Hello Aiirrrrrreooowwwwww. Hahahahahaha. I’m two.

And so on. It’s the first time we’ve ever properly sat down to speak and see each other via webcam and I’m hoping that it becomes a semi regular thing. Even though I am far away from where she is, I still want to be a part of her life somehow. It’s a weird thing to see your own disembodied head dipping into and out of frame as you try and chat normally to a child that you have only ever met in the flesh twice. What strange times we live in now. Emily took it all in her stride, chatting to a veritable stranger on a screen. Someone that’s her Godmother but whom she doesn’t really know. She’s too little for this to matter to her or to understand. But I understand all too well and it makes me sad.

I have written about the tyranny of distance endless times. When the place you live takes you far away from your close friends and family. I have written about the expat life and its joys and downfalls. I thought that writing about it, living it and having time pass would mean that the ache would get better but I fear that it never does. I am sick to death about writing about it but just because you are sick of something doesn’t mean that it goes away. When I go about my day-to-day life, I’m ok. I love the life I live here in London. But on days like this when I am jolted into the life of your nearest and dearest back home, I get to see from their side how life has gone on and that I am not a part of it. Even though I know this to be the case, seeing their smiling faces in their house on the other side of the world provides a quick reality check that even though it is so familiar, it is not. This feeling sucks.

In theory, I get it all. In my head I understand that our lives go on, time passes and things change. It’s all a very logical process in my head. But in my heart, I wish that the vast ocean between us was not. I wish that I could play with my Goddaughter, chat and laugh with her mum and then get on the tube and come home.

As long as they are important to me, I don’t see how I will ever feel any different.

Puff Puff Paree

There comes a time in a woman's life where you realise that you gotta Use it or Lose It. By this I mean that once you hit your early to mid 30's, certain physical realities start to manifest. The onset of aging becomes apparent with clicking joints and funny aches. Things start to sag and bag. Your body is no longer a house of fun but a treacherous course that has to be navigated more carefully. For me, the onset on bodily decay was rather startling. For the past 29 years, I have danced so my body has served me, not the other way around. I did not like this new world order.

Luck would have it that around this time I moved to an area in London which is populated with joggers. When we first moved there, my husband and I would gaze at all the bobbing figures and joke about whether we would eventually succumb.

"Nah, " we'd mutter as we sank back into the depths of our sofa. "It's too cold. What's wrong with those people?"

Three years later and we are now those people. We run in the cold. We run in the rain. We run alone. We run with friends. We run in events and to our continual delight and amazement - our bodies don't fail us. We feel stronger than before and it's a good feeling.

Last weekend we ran in the Paris Half Marathon with a group of friends. It was our first big running event and we were all nervous. It was raining and the event was poorly organised. There were no toilets along the route and no energy drinks either. I have always defended Paris when others tut-tutted about the Parisian attitude of disdain but not this time. I ran the route with a semi full bladder and cursed the organisers the whole route. My tears on sight of the finishing line were not tears of relief and joy, but happiness that a toilet was perhaps close to hand.

Bladder relieved and divested of my sweaty, rain soaked garments, it sunk in that I had completed a test of endurance. Not only completed it but done so in a decent time and with energy to spare. I had trained to do so and had taken back the mastery of my body and mind. Not against time but against apathy and inertia.

Everyone ages, grows old and dies. But some of us are lucky to feel that they have a choice in how this happens. Running is seeing me through this mid 30's phase. It makes me feel like I have a choice and that I can do anything I put my mind to.

Not bad for a free activity in this day and age.