If the Mountain Won't Come to Mohammed...

Ingleborough is the second highest peak in the Yorkshire Dales and my new hiking boots are just begging to be broken in.

High School Reunion

When I logged into my Facebook account this morning, I was greeted by a sight so horrifying that it was all I could do not to projectile vomit my breakfast all across the screen.

An invite to my high school reunion. Accompanied by all our yearbook photos.

Holy shit.

I thought I had escaped this particular rite of passage. I went to a hippy dippy arts high school crammed with stoners, Fame wannabes and bogans. I did not believe anyone from my year would be ever be motivated enough to organise a reunion. Or even want to.

Clearly that was just my own projection. Post graduation, I thought we had all run out screaming but maybe it was just me.

As I scrolled through the invite, all the faces from my past looked so happy and carefree in their Facebook profile pics. Smiling alongside their partners and children. Climbing Everest. Dancing the night away. They didn’t seem stoned (particularly) and any bogan-ish tendencies were well hidden.

My high school nemesis was amongst these faces and even though I screamed a silent Nooo..., my finger clicked on her link. Her shiny, successful life flashed before me. Her success was so blatant that I started comparing myself instantly because that’s what nemesis’ are for. And because I am a masochist.

The definition of a High School Reunion is: compare and contrast yourself against everyone else and feel superior or feel suicidal. That’s what these reunions are about right? Who did well? Who looks good? Who lived up to their potential? Who didn’t? It’s like a meeting of racehorses.

It’s an awkward feeling when your high school self and current self meet as mine did today. The conversation they had went something like this:

High School Self: So what the fuck have you been doing with your life?
Current Self: Errr…umm…. Stuff.
High School Self: Like what?
Current Self: You know. Work. Travel. Dance. Love.
High School: Oh dance. Yeah I remember. I expect you’re working in dance now aren’t you?
Current Self: No. It’s a hobby
High School Self: What a shame. You must be doing something else pretty special. You did so well at school.
Current Self: No, not really. Nothing special.

And so on. They talked for a really long time and it was really depressing for both of them.

Beware the words High School Reunion. It’s just brutal.

The Road

I went to see The Road last night; the film adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's Pulitzer winning novel.


I had read many reviews of the film prior, all of them commenting on the grim, relentless bleakness inherent. It's to be expected though, when the film's subject is surviving a post-apocalyptic world where hope hangs on a thread.

Before I left work for the cinema, I mentioned to a colleague that I was going to see it. She looked at me in alarm.

Oh no.

What do you mean, Oh No?

You'll need a drink when you get out, she replied. Actually maybe best to have one before you go in too.

All this wonderful preamble fully situated me to come out of the film and slit my wrists.

I went nonetheless.

Afterwards I did not kill myself but instead went for pizza with my friend who had come with me. We went in a slightly stunned state, as if we had been bludgeoned by a mallet, but in a good way.

The film was bleak and grim and relentless. It was also familiar, tender and visionary. At least for me.

I sat rivetted throughout. I didn't find it plodding or angstful. The images and emotions onscreen seemed universal. Questions raised in the film were my own and that of my generation and the ones to follow. Questions about survival, morality, humanity, hope and love.

It was compelling and I can't get it out of my head.

The Winter of My Discontent

My husband put in a request recently for me to write some more topical entries.

I like it when you write about issues. It makes me think about what my point of view is in relation.

The subtext of course being:

I’m sick of your navel gazing.

So I thought about what recent issues I could pontificate on at length here. Some that have captured my attention include:

• The recent life sentence of Frances Inglis, the mother who killed her son by heroin overdose. An act of mercy or murder?
• Ludwig Minnelli, founder of Dignitas and his vision for a humane way to leave this life
• The Hope for Haiti telethon (the tag line being – Is George Clooney positioning himself as the new Bono?)
• The dolphin killings that happen in Taiji, Japan as depicted in, The Cove

Whilst the above are all topics worthy of discussion, my attention is distracted by an omniscient presence that pervades my every thought and has done for many weeks.

January.

January as a month deserves to have a blog entry dedicated to it. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve written about my rapture for this time of year. January is a season all of its own. It’s the season of Hell.

As I wake in the morning gloom to look out the window onto another grim and cheerless day, I wonder whether this is what it might have been like to live in The Dark Ages. Certainly the pale faces squashed up tight in the airless confines of my rush-hour tube carriage, look as if they have been subjected to hours of mediaeval drudgery and hard bread that hurts your teeth.

Powerless as we are to change Mother Nature, it does beg belief that people choose this most joyless of times to practice abstinence. Detox? Are you kidding? We already have no light. Why no food and drink too?

I know I’m not alone in my January-itis. Apparently you are susceptible to this view if you are Australian*.

Despite the connotations of the term, Downunder, the country I hail from is not dark (or hairy). The quality known as light is in such abundance that sunglasses grow from our heads.

I can hear voices echo, well if you love it so much, why don't you go back? Or is that my own talking?

I’m not happy about the lack of sympathy. I probably have S.A.D. I need medical attention.

January-itis is a real thing. They dedicated an episode to it on 30 Rock. The song, A Whiter Shade of Pale was inspired by it. When Dylan Thomas wrote those oft quoted lines:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light

he wasn’t writing about death. Mark my words, the man was Welsh. He was writing about January.


*Quote: If you write about January you will just sound like a moaning Australian.. Husband …(still)

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.

A Shade of Blue

Facebook is great for pilching other people's photos. The illusion of privacy is exactly that. One of the web techs at work confirmed to me how you could get sideways access into a stranger's photos. I knew this already as I had just nicked this:


This was taken by a a friend of a friend of a friend. In other words, a stranger but one who took this photo of a flock of seagulls flying close to the faint moon on average blue sky day in Perth.

It's been too long since I saw that shade of blue....

'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 Hawking Centre

2009 is nearly out the door. But unlike T.S Eliot's famed aphorism, I'm finding that the year is not ending with a whimper but with a resounding bang!

Amidst the flurry of christmas, good friends, indulgence and volunteer work with Crisis, I managed to spirit my husband away for a day at The Hawking Centre at Leeds castle. Birds of prey have fascinated him since he was a wee lad and I thought it was high time he actually came into a contact with a few as opposed to watching CGI-ed clips on Youtube.

The Hawking Centre is run by Leigh and Jo Holmes and managed by Mark Brattle. Mark was our guide for the day and his passion for falconry was clear from the moment he picked us up at the train station right through to the days end.

After a warming cup of coffee our small group ventured out into the rain whereby Mark showed us the picturesque grounds and introduced us to the birds of the centre. We met owls, buzzards, falcons, eagles, hawks, vultures and kestrels; Mark giving us a small history of each bird and their hunting abilities. Meeting a peregrine falcon, the fastest creature on earth was pretty special as it seemed so small and unassuming despite its inherent powers. I was also impressed by the tiny kestrels who I learned can see in ultra violet so as to track mice urine from the air. But it was the owls that stole my heart and not even the brutal truth as told by Mark that they are very stupid birds could dissuade my affections.

                                                   Barney being weighed by Mark pre-flight

Soon enough it was coffee down and gloves on. Mark started us off by flying Barney, their adorable and very vocal white barn owl. Initially apprehensive I watched as Barney swooped towards me and landed light as a feather on my hand. Magic.

From there Mark progressed us onto Ozzie, an African eagle owl with golden eyes and propensity to waddle towards us rather than fly.
                                                       Ozzie in all his imperious glory

Maggie the vulture was next. Her temper was apparent as she repeatedly bit Mark's hand as he weighed her. Maggie was in no real mood for flying and after a few attempts she flew herself back to the aviary and waited for Mark to take her inside. I must admit I didn't blame her. Why should she have to fly around in the cold and wet just for the amusement of a few humans?


                                          Maggie deigning to alight before she flew back home

Next was Brock, a Harris Hawk who gave us a real sense of how swift, sharp and acute birds of prey are. He alighted on our hands within seconds of being called, silently and with little warning. We went for a long walk with Brock around the grounds, he following us from tree-to-tree as he would do in a hunt and being called in by one of us every few minutes.

                                                                   Brock, hanging out.

Our day ended here due to the weather and safety. To progress onto the faster, bigger birds would have required more training and better weather.

Being a city dweller can dampen your senses and cloud your vision. A day out in the wild weather in green Kent in the company of birds of prey was just the antidote needed to see the year to a harmonious close.

So it's farewell to 2009 with a hearty bang. Not that of a firecracker or a drum, but the sound of a peregrine falcon hitting its prey at 180mph.

To end the year, here's a quote from Frances McDormand as Elaine Miller in Amost Famous:

I didn't ask for this role, but I'll play it. Now go do your best. Be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid

Happy New Year!.

Rigby & Peller

Many years ago I heard on the grapevine that Rigby & Peller was the place du jour to go in London if you wanted to be fitted properly for a bra. To get an idea of where they stand in the world of corsetry, they hold a Royal Warrant of Appointment which in plain language means that they are the official supplier to the Royal Family. Their fittings are free and you can either book an appointment in advance or simply walk in off the street and wait for a fitter to become available.

I have never been a fan of bras. I’ve always found them uncomfortable and restrictive but maybe that’s because I’ve never worn the correct size. For many women it’s not something that comes as a given when we choose our first off–the-rack bra at K-mart. As the years go by, many of us (you know who you are) just guess at our bra size as our bodies change with age.


Well enough was enough. If I had to wear the stupid things, it was time to find out what size I should wear. Anyone that’s handled the Queens’ bazookas is good enough for mine so last week I went along to the Conduit Street branch of Rigby & Peller for a walk-in fitting. Luckily there was no wait. I was ushered quickly into the changing rooms and told to strip off. After a quick glance at the goods, my fitter briefly popped out of the cubicle before returning with two bras for me to try on.

Don’t you have to measure me with a tape first?, I asked

She laughed in a way suggesting I was an imbecile.

We don’t need to use tapes, she poohed-poohed. We can tell.

And sure enough she could. Although slightly different sizes, both bras fitted me well.

How can I be two sizes?, I queried.

Which size you wear will depend on the manufacturer, she told me. So you should always try it on before you buy.

The da-da-da moment came as she told me what size bras I had just tried on. I was shocked. They were nowhere in the ballpark of what I had been wearing for the past EIGHTEEN years.

Happens all the time, she said. You should get yourself measured every 6-8 months actually.

Well I never. Ladies, do yourselves a favour and get fitted. It’s a whole new world upfront

'Tis the Silly Season

Since I moved to London, I’ve come to experience the months leading up to Christmas as being high pitched and action packed. In anticipation of the holidays and perhaps in an effort to stave off the dark gloom of winter, the sheer amount of social and cultural activities for everyone seem to quadruple as does the desire to attend every single thing possible. It’s a marathon few months run at break neck pace. By Christmas, we are all exhausted and fall down post Xmas in a crumpled, sodden heap.

The lead up this year has been no exception, crammed full with catch-ups with friends, parties and shows galore. London at any time offers a veritable feast of rich pickings and in the last few weeks I’ve been to several shows. Here is a snapshot of each:

Michael Clarke Company

With Kate Moss as a patron, Michael Clarke Company is well situated in positing itself as the cool, hip kid on the block of contemporary dance. Presenting a revival of his 1986 classic, Swamp, together with a medley of pieces set to music by Iggy Pop, Lou Reed and David Bowie, Clarke had his unitard clad dancers performing gymnastic, Cunningham-influenced choreography that reminded me of moves executed by the Chinese gymnasts in Cirque du Soleil. Clarke’s ascetic, constrained style may appeal to some but I prefer my dancers with a little more expression even if it means a little less épaulement.



The Blind Boys from Alabama

I have always wanted to attend a Gospel revival and on a cold, winter’s night at the Barbican, I got my wish. The Blind Boys bounced onstage in their sharp white suits and showed us the meaning of puttin’ on a show. Slightly diminished in number (one had died the week before and another had been waylaid in transit), they nonetheless raised the roof with their rich, booming voices which resulted in a concert unlike no other. By the end the entire, and I mean entire audience were on its feet dancing, shouting, clapping, hooting and singing. If I could've bottled the atmosphere there that night, I think I would have captured the essence of joy. Eau de Joy courtesy of the Bad Boys. Hallelujah Amen!

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

When the husband told me that we had tickets to go see Tennessee Williams’ classic play, I wasn’t sold. Unlike him I am not a sci-fi geek so the thought of James Earl Jones (voice of Darth Vader) starring as Big Daddy did not make my head turn. But there are worse ways to spend a Friday night so I went along. The minute the Big Man strolled onstage in Scene Two, a quicker reversal of opinion you never saw. His rich, mellifluous voice delivered line after gorgeous line which combined with a dynamite stage presence and solid, assured acting held me in thrall. Mid scene his stage prowess was in full flight; tearing up the boards and eating Adrian Lester for breakfast. His relative absence in Scene Three left a huge belly-shaped hole in the acting which made me want to shout out, Come back Daddy Darth! Show these youngsters how it’s done! James Earls Jones. The man’s got acting in his bones.



Susie Orbach and Marin Alsop

My friend Cassandra and I went along to Southbank last night to hear Susie Orbach and Marin Alsop talk about women in leadership. In 2007 Marin was appointed director of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra and was the first woman to be appointed as such in America. Susie is a psychoanalyst, lecturer and well–known author, with the phenomenal anti-dieting treatiseFat is a Feminist Issue under her belt as well as the more recent, Bodies. She is also the co-originator of the Dove Campaign for Real Beauty and convenor of the website AnyBody. To cap it off, Shami Chakrabarti, director of the human rights organisation, Liberty chaired the event. In the presence of such luminaries we expected interesting discussion and we were not disappointed. Marin spoke about the complexities of being in a leadership role where she found herself a female role model simply because of the sheer lack of any others in her field. Susie was more keen to examine the psycho-social reasons why women still do not 100% feel they can grab hold of the brass ring. And that when they do, why their leadership style has to emulate that of men to be deemed as “real” leadership. After all, she said, Women have been leaders for centuries as guardians of the home but that intimate, complex style of leadership is not regarded as valid. Why? The night ended far too soon and we walked out, our heads filled with questions and a brightness of purpose that being inspired will do to you.

They say there is no rest for the wicked and that's true in my case as the week ahead brings me to see the sexy man of dance Carlos Acosta showcasing Apollo & Other Works at Sadlers Wells and also to hear the great Ranulph Fiennes, explorer extraordinaire talking about his adventures at the Royal Geographic Society.

I'm knackered but I can't wait.

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.

New Moon

Vampires. Werewolves. Forbidden love. Robert Pattinson. It should work.

My name is Lavendar and I am a Twilight fan.

Last night I gathered with several hundred fellow cult members to watch the eagerly awaited second filmgasm of the franchise.

New Moon.

My hopes for this film were not high. They were stratospheric. But as gravity or sod's law dictates, such high hopes have only one place to go. Down.

As my hopes fell, my temper rose.

WTF was Chris Weitz thinking?! Did he not go to film school? What is the holy grail of Film-making 101 people?

Show. Don't Tell.

So what did he and the scriptwriters do?

Tell, tell, tell. Long, turgid dialogue used repeatedly to set the exposition which was unexcusable and lazy. This was matched with poor pacing, as if each script page was written on A3 resulting in interminable scenes which desperately needed editing.

Whilst the production budget was clearly higher on this film (Edward's skin was much sparklier), it feels as if it all went into the action sequences; the only parts of the film I think Weitz was genuinely invested in. Weitz failed to invest in the creation of a dramatic narrative tension and as a result the film lacked atmosphere, nuance and longing. The only longing evident was my own for the film to end.

Chris: Now Kristen, I want you to say your sixty lines of dialogue as slowly as possible so we can make the scene really long for no good reason.

Sat amongst rabid Twilighters who were devouring every flickering second onscreen, the film cinema last night was a lonely place. Locked in my own hellish disappointment, I compared New Moon to Twilight as such. If Twilight was Gone with the Wind on film, then New Moon felt like Days of our Lives on TV.

It's not that I thought Catherine Hardwicke's Twilight was a filmic masterpiece but it was a damn sight better than New Moon. It was sexy and edgy and had a great score and was well cut. With Hardwicke you also felt that she lived and breathed the film; the characters and their emotions. With Weitz, it felt that it was just another job with a few cool action set pieces for him to play with.

To add to my devastation, I found myself agreeing with the film critic from the Daily Mail. The Daily Mail for godssakes!

My downfall is complete. Come get me Twilighters. Kill me now.

The London Korean Film Festival 2009

A friend of mine works for a Korean animation company which amongst other projects is well known for Pucca, as in pucca up and give me one! Here is the little starlet:



The company have just sold a new animation called DreamKix which is about about footballing furries to French television. My mate has been kept busy with meetings in Paree and attending French film festivals. What a slog. Ooh la la!

Back in London, she is attending the London Korean Film Festival at the Barbican this weekend as DreamKix features in the program. Also featured is the opening gala of Park Chan-wook’s vampire flick, Thirst which apparently kicks some Twilight ass. I'm dying to see it (did you get that, dying to see it. Oh never mind)


If you are free you should get down there and see what those crazy Koreans are up to. After Old Boy, what could possibly be next?