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.
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.
I got my first mobile phone in 2002. Prior to that, I’d resisted getting one because there was no real need for me to have one. Working freelance in events quickly put an end to my Luddite status and I was lumbered with an old clunker of a beast (Nokia) that quickly became indispensible professionally. I latched on soon enough to the personal benefits of mobile technology when I moved interstate. Lonely and missing my friends, I found much appeal in texting drunken messages in the wee hours:
I miss yoooouuuu……..hic!
That Nokia lasted me a lifetime. It bore witness to some truly memorable experiences. It contained the travails of moving interstate and coming out of a four year relationship. It saw me through about six job changes. It contained all the early courtship texts sent between me and my soon-to-be husband. And then in fitting fashion I lost it somewhere in Changi Airport en route from Australia to begin my new life in London.
My first mobile love...
Since then many mobiles have come and gone. They break down on or fall into the toilet. I lose them in my own house or they disappear in film cinemas. As another one bites the dust, a part of me mourns:
Every time we say goodbye, I cry a little Every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little…
And then when the replacement comes, it’s hard on both of us. The animosity is instant. I poke at its buttons with disdain and it blanks me. I poo poo the software and it freezes. Finally one of us snaps. I throw it across the room screaming:
I hate it! I hate it! I hate it! It doesn’t work!
But then slowly we start to get to know one other. Hidden qualities emerge which hold me in thrall. I start to open up, trusting it with private messages and details.
Sick or not sick, life goes on. Last week passed in a whirl of birthday celebrations, overseas visitors and a jaunt to Wiltshire to visit friends.
First up was a night out at the Punchbowl which is the pub in Mayfair owned by Mr Ex-Madonna, Guy Ritchie. When you hear about these celebrity haunts in the media, you get the impression that they are touched by stardust given all the fuss generated. After spending four hours in said venue, I concluded that it was not stardust that lingered in the air at the Punchbowl but the faint whiff of Eau de Bull.
The charm of the place eluded me but maybe that was because I was starving. I’d ordered the scallops for my mains so when all six of them arrived I thought:
Where’s the rest?
As it was my friend's birthday, we wanted a few happy snaps but the small print on the menu clearly stated:
No photography is allowed in the venue.
Oh please. As if I want to take photos of a bunch of bankers and tourists. Get over yourself Guy. And how about churning out a decent movie one of these days eh?
Dean Street Townhouse where we took our visitor from Oz the following night was pleasure itself. It’s so refreshing when a place lives up to its hype. Part of the Soho House group, Dean Street is a relatively new kid on the block and has been garnering rave reviews ever since it debuted several months ago. I can happily contest that the food, atmosphere and service were delightful. And like the previous night, I did not leave hungry. Only hungry for more.
The weekend saw us winging it to Wiltshire for a long promised visit with friends who have a weekend hideaway out that way. The weather was delightful and our friends whisked us on a jaunt through the English countryside, incorporating the Ridgeway which is the oldest known road in England. We also went to see the White Horse of Uffington which dates back to the Bronze Age and has beside it, Dragon Hill, purported to be the site where St George slew the dragon.
Seeing where a dragon was killed was not too shabby a way to end the week. And we could take photos.
Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place. -Susan Sontag
I think my body is punishing me for running a marathon. Since I crossed the finish line and stopped pounding pavement, my body started pounding me.
Take that! it said as I hacked up phelgm from a chest infection.
You don't know the meaning of pain, it taunted as my throat swelled red and raw. Here's dehydration for ya, it sung as I prayed to the Porcelain God.
Vengeful huh?
The result of having been sick on and off for two months is that I am now on extended rest leave from work on Doctor's Orders. For one week.
As much as I do not like being sick, there is value in it. Sickness can be a sort of communion with oneself. When thoughts or ideas that you have been too busy to attend to in the frenzy of daily life, have an opportunity to surface. Sickness makes us be still.
It's great.
From stillness comes ideas, creativity and regeneration. I've barely left the house all week yet I've been more productive and stimulated than in the longest while.
As long as I get better after the week that is. After that, not so great.
Chronic illness, the type of inflictions which make people flinch or look blank when they come up in conversation is no-one's idea of a good time. Illness that lingers or has no cause nor cure. It tips a person from the land of the living into a strange subterranean territory where you are utterly alone with your character and conscience.
It's terrifying.
If you recover and re-emerge, blinking and shaken from the long time spent in that murky land, you are changed forevermore. The life lessons you get about yourself and those around you whilst chronically ill are unlike any other.
The challenge is to live well after that. Which I hope, most do.
Because I for one sure as hell don't want another visit to that hard and lonely land.
When I was at high school all those many, many years ago, there was a period of time in which my mates and I used to wag school quite a lot. I think back to this as the start of my delinquent phase which I am still waiting to grow out of.
But, I digress.
Having successfully legged it from whatever class we were supposed to be attending (Home Economics was a popular choice), my mates would chirrup:
Shall we go hang out at the park? Stalk some cute boys? Listen to music? Go to the markets?
Nah, I’d reply coolly, I’m going to the library.
That’s right. The Library.
Now you may be thinking, what sort of freak wags school, a place of paid learning and education just so they can go to the library?
Erm. That would be me.
After my friends had ditched me (after much vociferous disapproval at this library business), I would hunker down between shelves with a stack of books higher than my head and just dive in.
Bliss.
Together with delinquency, the need to read is also something I have never grown out of. I think if I could eat books, I would.
Therefore I am so happy to be visiting the London Library soon.
The London Library is, and I quote this from their Facebook page:
the world’s largest independent lending library. Founded in 1841, today it houses a remarkable collection of over one million books & periodicals from the 16th to 21st century.
Billions of stories are hidden behind those walls...
The library offers a service by which they give a tour to wanna be members. Membership is open to all but is incredibly expensive. £395 annually. So despite the “all is welcome” policy, the subtext is actually, "money talks, the rest can walk". On a brighter note, you can pay £10 for day membership and have access to the library but without borrowing privileges.
I haven’t a hope in hell of gaining borrowing rights but I’m excited still. Posing as a rich person, I will be getting a guided tour through this lush and gorgeous place where Tom Stoppard goes to write and Jeremy Paxman is on the board of Vice-Presidents. I can’t wait.
The germs that got their mitts on me a few weeks ago have come back for seconds.
I. Am. Not. Happy.
Sickness and I have a push-pull relationship. I pull myself out of its fug and it pushes me back into it. It’s like a freaking tug of war. Some time ago, it pushed me into ME hell for two years.
But hello. I ran a marathon. Isn’t that supposed to mean I’m healthy now? Fit?
I am particularly unimpressed to be ill right now because not only is it summer and there are Lots of Things to Do but I have an overseas trip to plan.
Ill or not, my excitement is growing. Apart from all my loved ones that I’ll be flinging myself on, there are many places that I’m looking forward to visiting. Places laden with memories; good times and bad. Places that I’ve never been to and always wanted to try. Places that might mean nothing to you but everything to me.
Sydney has always confused me with its ghetto-like urban sprawl and wannabe mentality. This time round I hope to make some sense of it. Apart from seeing my dear Grandma and some friends whose kids I plan to kidnap, we are going to Sydney so I can visit Glebe Markets. I am a market aficionado and Glebe is one of my favourites since I stumbled across it in 1998. Back then the hostel I stayed in stunk of pee. This time round, I'm not even bothering with accomodation. I'm going straight from the airport. From a 22 hour flight. I'm not kidding.
I love Melbourne. I love it more now that I don’t live there. It’s the perfect city for me from a distance with its amazing food and coffee, great shopping, integrated demographic, cultural riches and diverse nightlife. I have a long list of must-go-to’s in Melbourne:
Shanghai dumpling place on Tattersalls Lane, my kitchen away from home
The Latrobe Reading Room at the State Library. Quite possbily the reason I moved to Melbourne in the first place.
Northcote, Elwood, Balaclava, Fitzroy, Thornbury, Yarraville, Footscray, St Kilda, – all places I formed a bond with
Hosier Lane to check out the latest graffiti art. Melbourne has the best graffiti art and has done for years. Far before Banksy became all the rage.
The Astor Theatre; the best place to watch films in art deco decadence
The Ding Dong Lounge and Northcote Social Club. Melbourne's live music scene is amazing. These are just two of the many places to go see some great acts.
Beautiful, natural, isolated Perth. A frontier city perched on the edge of the Indian Ocean with a Mediterranean climate. Relaxed, quiet, beautiful and clean.
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....
I don't mean to piss on an open wound but consider this in relation to England's appalling performance on Friday against Algeria. A comparison of our national anthems:
Algeria:
We swear by the lightning that destroys, By the streams of generous blood being shed, By the bright flags that wave, Flying proudly on the high mountains, That we have risen up, and whether we live or die, We are resolved that Algeria shall live - So be our witness -be our witness - be our witness!
We are soldiers in revolt for truth And we have fought for our independence. When we spoke, none listened to us, So we have taken the noise of gunpowder as our rhythm And the sound of machine guns as our melody, We are resolved that Algeria shall live - So be our witness -be our witness -be our witness!
England:
God save our gracious Queen! Long live our noble Queen! God save the Queen! Send her victorious, Happy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the Queen.
Thy choicest gifts in store On her be pleased to pour, Long may she reign. May she defend our laws, And give us ever cause, To sing with heart and voice, God save the Queen.
The past few months have seen a few firsts happen in my life. I’ve run my first marathon, played in my first piano recital and also, attended my first RPM class.
For the uninitiated, RPM stands for Revolutions Per Minute. Meaningless in itself, the term has been repackaged by the Les Mills global sports franchise into an indoor cycle class that mimics outdoors cycling. At least that’s what it says on the package.
The marathon had left me with a foot injury which means that I have been unable to run, dance, jump; do any high impact activity for the past month. To hold stir craziness and boredom at bay, I’ve been swimming, cycling, yoga-ing and pilat-ing but it hasn’t really worked. I got bored.
I needed more variation.
My husband, a RPM fan had been urging me to go for months.
Give it a go, he said religiously until weakened by his nagging, I succumbed.
So at the ungodly hour of 7.15am, I found myself perched on top of a stationary bicycle in a dark, airless room with 30 other people, all there to “feel the burn” Thankfully the instructor, a lycra -clad Australian seemed not prone to the fake cheering or whooping that inflicts many of his type (Fitness instructors. Not Australians). As the thumping music started, everyone around me started churning away at their pedals in Lance Armstrong fashion.
I started to feel quite peculiar. The room started to close in. My chest felt tight. I had an overwhelming urge to run outside and gasp in cool, clear air.
Did I listen to my body’s’ good sense? Did I leave the class before passing out from claustrophobia?
No. I kept going. Why?
Because I needed to feel the burn, baby.
Overcrowded. Tick. Airless. Tick. Dark. Tick. Welcome to RPM
Succumbing to the oxygen-deprived psychosis that RPM inflicts, I pedalled away. Up imaginary hills, around imaginary tracks; all the while humming the tune, We’re On the Road to Nowhere beneath my breath:
We're on a ride to nowhere Come on inside Takin' that ride to nowhere We'll take that ride...
At last the class ended and I collapsed in a sweaty, spun out heap. My heart rate was off the charts. The burn had well and truly been felt.
So how did you find it? asked the Husband who had been pedalling away in his own Tour de France fantasy next to me.
It sucked. It’s stupid.
Eloquent as I am, I didn’t mention to him that I was planning to go again.
So I went along last night to the Buffalo Bar on Upper Street to hear a friend’s band play. The last time I had been to a live gig, the dinosaurs still roamed the earth. The bar rated well on my personal dank factor scale which filled the night with promise. As the music and beer kicked in and the space around started filling up with punters, I had the same reaction I get every time I drag myself out to hear live music.
Why don’t I do this more often?
Actually that’s not strictly true. I went to a Get Connected charity gig for in April organised by a friend of mine. It was held at the Hoxton Underbelly and featured three up and coming bands which entertained us amply and well. I would have preferred a little more sweaty crowd moshing but that’s just me.
So it wasn’t that long ago. Only two months. Why does it feel like centuries?
Because there was a certain period of time in my life where I would go to gigs on Tues, Weds, Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Thursday the local gig guide would come out and I would plan my week accordingly.
I was a groupie. For gigs. Alas uni days ended and full-time work beckoned. Talk about responsibility being a killjoy.
Gigs are cheap, easy to come by and on all night, every night. They don’t require you to sit quietly as in a theatre or cinema. You can move around. You can talk. You can leave when you want and come late. You can dance. They’re usually at night in the dark so you can look like crap and it doesn’t matter.
I love going to gigs. Why don’t I do it more often?
It turns out that I am a runner. A few posts back where I said I wasn't. Rubbish.
You know how I know this? How did this dramatic turnabout happen in a matter of days?
I ran a marathon. In Edinburgh. On the hottest weekend ever recorded in May in Scotland. It was brutal. I suffered. But so did 13,999 other people.
It seems like a surreal dream and I would think it so apart for the fact that I am limping badly and have a very strange tan.
Memories of the pain are fading already. All I remember is rounding the corner and seeing the finish line, 200 meters ahead of me. The end that I had longed after for 42 kilometers had finally come. Time seemed to slow. Pat Benatar started to sing, We Belong, on my ipod:
We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder..
Adrenaline coursed through me, propelling me to sprint. My breathing became jagged.
No, I thought. Relish It.
So I slowed down and took in the shimmering crowds and wall of noise. The other runners hurtling like coloured bullets past me. The blue sky and hot sun. The feeling of freedom, strength, lightness and joy as my legs carried me over that threshold; where I would never have to run again if I didn't want to.
That's what I remember.
Is that how I know I am a runner?
No.
I know because 48 hours after putting my body through that hell, I find myself thinking that it would be nice to go for a bit of a run.
