When the Rain Stops Falling

It's always interesting to track the signposts that lead you to an important juncture in life. A few weeks ago I was at the Origins Festival watching a documentary called Black Chicks Talking. The doco had been based on a book of interviews by Leah Purcell, who also directed and featured in the film. At the end of the screening, a Q & A was held whereby the audience was informed that Ms Purcell was currently in London acting in a play called When the Rain Stops Falling.


It was a busy week that followed but it seemed that everytime I opened a newspaper I would spot an interview with someone in the play. Or a favourable review about the play. Not long after, a friend from work told me about a brilliant Australian play that she had seen the night before. I must go she told me. I acquiesed to the inevitable and got the tickets straight away online.

I have now just returned from the Almeida Theatre where I saw Andrew Bovell's play at long last. It not only met my expectations but exceeded them. It was the best play I have seen in a very long while. It seamlessly combined good acting, excellent set design, good venue and an engaged and eloquent script. All elements combined which held me in thrall for a good two hours without interval.

The suprise for me tonight was how moved I was by the play. It wasn't the storyline (although good) that did it but rather the evocation of the Australian landscape through language and imagery. I found myself in tears when footage appeared of waves lapping up against a beach at night or the dark Australian sky filled with clusters of stars. I did not realise how much I miss the landscape and how deeply it is entrenched somewhere inside of me.

This desire for land and light and sea and sky is hard to explain to people. It therefore gave me comfort to read Andrew Bovell's words in the play's programme:

The Australian landscape and the sense of loneliness and isolation it evokes resonates in our collective consciousness and finds expression in our literature and art. Most of us live in cities and yet the sense of distance and space that surrounds us continues to play in our minds. I grew up in the isolation of the Western Australian wheat belt, a long way from the nearest city, Perth, which in itself is the most geographically isolated city in the world. There was space and time to fill out there. It is a strikingly beautiful landscape if you know how to see it and if you know how to be alone.

So beautifully put. I couldn't have said it better myself.

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.

String Metal

I've had an idea brewing for some time now for a show. I've been looking around for music to fit in with what's inside my head which is a dance piece which merges intense classicism with intense metal/punk thrashiness. I haven't been researching much, just mulling over the idea. I think of creativity like baking. You need to give time for the ingredients to synergise and rise up together.

The universe threw me this today. Apocalyptica. Four Finnish men who play metal cello.



Had I been researching, I would never had typed into Google "Finnish metal cello".

Love it.

Million Knives

Last night we went out in Camden to Proud, a 200-year-old Grad II Listed Horse Hospital in the Stables Market which has been redone into a live music and bar venue. We went to support our friend who was performing in his debut London gig with his band, Million Knives.

I haven't been to a gig in donkey's years. I felt my age in donkey's years when I walked into the smokey, booming venue. The too-cool-for-school brigade was out in force (after all - it was Camden) and I foresaw a long night ahead of me. I wondered how many Budweisers I would have to neck to numb the need to go home.

Fortunately I was only on my 2nd Bud (they were a fortune! £14 for a round of four) when I started to enjoy the electic range of bands onstage. The weariness of the day had fallen away and I started to appreciate the friendliness of the crowd and how easy it was to chat to strangers.

By the time Million Knives came onstage, me and my gal pals were front centre, screaming our lungs out and reviving the not-quite-dead 16 year old groupie that lives in us all.

When we stumbled out in the early hours, I'd met a bunch of great, new people and seen some great new bands. My taste for live gigs had been reborn.

Rock on!

You Are My Sunshine

It's muggy in London tonight. The sky is grey and low slung. It's 9pm as I write this yet it's still light outside.

I'm not used to London feeling like this. The warmth and humidity reminds me of the tropics. It makes me want to be outside by the ocean. If I was in Perth right now, I would drive myself to the seashore and lay on the sand and breathe.

Over the weekend we had fantastic weather. For the first time this year I lay down in the long grass in Richmond Park



and looked up at an all blue sky. I took off as many clothes as I could in a park without being arrested. I closed my eyes and took in the warmth of the sun. I turned my head to my husband who lay next to me:

Hey, if you close your eyes you can hear the sea. I can hear the waves lapping up against Leighton beach...

courtesy of Ben Cooke

The all seeing, all-knowing BBC weather channel has informed us citizens that we are in for a good summer. We're going to get consecutive days of sun interspersed with a few odd days of rain. Just so we don't forget that we're in England.

I hope so much that we have a good summer. Every year everyone I know hopes. Our collective hope could power Ireland.

I love that about you Brits. Despite the grey and grime and grot - you hang on and never stop hoping.

Freedom's Just Another Word...

with nothing else to lose", sang Janis in her usual husky style.

I was certainly not free at work yesterday when I came across this speech by David Foster Wallace about freedom. I had a mountain to move off my desk before I could leave for home so that a new mountain could appear overnight.

Nontheless we all pick and choose our moments so I decided to ignore the incoming emails and phone calls and questions and tasks and deadlines. For ten minutes I sat down and read what Mr Wallace had to say.

When I'd finished reading I went back to my mountain and worked steadily away until I couldn't anymore and left for the day.

Before and after those ten minutes, nothing changed in my space. If you looked into my world through a viewfinder you'd have seen everything was where it always was.

That's the way it is. That's the way we see each other.

So you wouldn't know unless I told you that the ten minutes I spent reading that speech were ten of the best minutes of my life.

I have had lots. But yesterday. They were ten good ones.

Thanks DFW. RIP.

Climb Every Mountain?

In my work life I am surrounded by successful career women. Women who have clawed their way up to the top of the arts' professions. Women whom I never once thought I would have the opportunity to meet. Once upon a time I would have considered many of these people to be role models. I would have considered myself lucky to have landed any one of their jobs.

But not anymore.

I am lucky. I am lucky that my current job has allowed me to meet and work with these women. To see that up close, all that glitters is not always gold.

These women will have had made significant personal sacrifices to get where they are. I know they all work hard and have persevered for years against constant obstacles. I know that they have beat off hundreds, even thousands of competitors to survive in their chosen environment. Up close they do not seem particularly hardened but they are as tough they come.

Knowing this makes me feel distinctly uneasy. Why?

Because I don't want to get to where they are and have become like that. But to get to where they are, I don't think there is a choice. The arts world in London (and everywhere else) is dirty and grasping. As soon as you get a known profile, the knives come out. You have to get your hands filthy to survive and the higher up you are, the grottier they potentially get.

When I was little, my mother, to warn me off a career in politics used to say:

All politcians are corrupt. Even if they start off with good intentions, to stay and succeed in the game, they have to become crooked. A good politician is a contradiction in terms.

So where does that leave me?

With clean hands but no career? Or with a potential career but at what cost?

The Food Anger

I hate getting bad food in restaurants. It makes me so angry. In fact, it makes me LIVID.

London is not a city where the general standard of food is average or better. It varies wildly between bloody awful to exceptional. When you try a new restaurant in London, you are taking a risk.

I had dinner this week at the Giaconda Dining Room. This place is well known as being a little haven of inexpensive civility amongst the brashness of Soho. I'd heard good things so was looking forward to it.

When we sat down to order at 8pm I was ravenous. I'd been up since 5.30am and worked on a photoshoot all day long. My eyes made quick work of the menu. Rigatoni Puttanesca for starter. Baked cod with polenta and endive salad for main. Done.

The Puttanesca came and went without comment passing from my lips except for two words:

Very salty.

The Husband who was happily tucking into his Pig Trotters cast a wary glance in my direction. There was fear in his eyes but he wisely made no comment.

When my main arrived I dug in with gusto. My enthusiasm palled after the first bite. And took a rapid nosedive after the second and third. The flavours of the dish were not fish as expected but oil. The fish tasted of oil. The polenta tasted of oil and even the salad tasted of oil. I put down my fork. My husband looked up nervously from his Hashed Ham Hock with Egg and Salad.

How's yours? I asked
Good, he said. Do you want to swap?
No.

I sat fuming and then it was upon me.

The Food Anger.

When I am very hungry and I do not eat, I get a bit nuts. I'm short tempered, irrational, snappy. I would not trust myself to drive when I'm like this.

However when I'm very hungry and have paid good money to eat something at a nice restaurant and it turns out to be crap, I lose it. One of these days a plate will hit the wall. Another diner will be spattered with food as collateral damage. I will probably be arrested.

As my husband ate, I stabbed. I stabbed the oily fish on the oily polenta. In my mind I was stabbing the chef. Then I started to complain. Loudly.

I warned all the other diners not to get the fish. I also told everyone not to bother ordering fries either as they were oily and rubbery. I lamented how it was too late for us but they should all leave now if they hadn't yet ordered.

My husband continued to eat and ignore me.

I was being childish and obnoxious. But I didn't care. I didn't want to speak to the waiter politely and ask for another dish. The waiters were giving our table a wide berth by now anyhow.

When he had finished his meal my husband ushered me out as graciously as he could. He did not tip them however which was just as well as it would have meant the end of our marriage.

Two days later and I am still pissed off. But at least I am not foaming from the mouth anymore.

We went out for dinner the next night too. But that's a whole other story.

Coffee Makes the World Go Round

This London man is supposed to make the best coffee in Britain



I must hunt him down...

Like A Fish to Water

In Australia I am a below average swimmer. I would swim but I was never one of those strong, sleek bodies that charged through the water doing lap after steady lap. In Oz I always swam in the Slow or Medium lane. I would never have dared dipped my toe in the Fast.

When I moved to London I stopped swimming. Having been spolit by Perths' open air, salt walter pools, I could not bring myself to become enthusiastic about swimming indoors in a heavily chlorinated, 25 metre urinal.



After a few years of non-swimming, I got free membership to one of London's best gyms. The pool in this gym was decent by London standards. It was still indoors and 25m but it looked clean. The husband said:

No excuses now. You can start swimming again.

But I didn't. By now I hadn't swum for years and was out of the habit until.....

the Paris Half Marathon.

Training for the half marathon forced me into the water again. I knew I needed to incorporate some cardio exercise that would not put weight on my joints. So I dived in and to my surprise I discovered that not only could I still swim, I wasn't bad at all. In fact, I was pretty damn good.

What happened? Three years of not swimming and in the first lap I become Esther Williams? Something's wrong.



I looked around and slowly the light went on.

I was in London.

A city of BAD swimmers.

As a general rule, Londoners are not great swimmers. It's not a part of their upbringing like it is for Aussies. They try, bless them and it's not their fault. They don't have the sea and lovely pools like us.

Still, this makes me feel great. I did nothing and became an above average swimmer. Over here I even swim in the Fast lane.

It doesn't get any easier than that.

The London Marathon

Oh my freaking god!

Today is the London Marathon. It's 7.30am and I have been up for the past two hours. I barely slept and my stomach is churning over with nerves.

Am I running?

No.

This pre-marathon frenzy is just my excitement and anticipation. My husband and four of our friends are running today in what is reputedly the best fundraising event in the world. For all of them, this is their first ever marathon. I've watched them work their guts out over the past 4-5 months in preparation and I feel so proud of them all. To run a marathon requires not just physical capacity but huge reserves of mental strength and discipline. It's very tough.

If this is how I feel I can't imagine what it must have been like for them over the past few days. No wonder when I met up with a few of them yesterday, they could barely eat or talk.

I have never been to the Marathon. I've heard it's brilliant. That the atmosphere is incredible and that it is a day where the whole of London comes together to cheer on our runners. I can't wait.

Go Team!

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.

Yes Prime Minister

Last week I went to the Houses of Parliament for a work launch. I'd never been inside the actual buildings before and so approached the expedition with a touristic avaracity. Everything seemed so interesting, right down to the thorough security screen at the entrance and all the pollies rushing past me looking intense and harassed. I was in heaven. My West Wing fantasy come to life in a Yes Prime Minister kind of way.

My boss who was with me sauntered around the place as if she was born to be there. I half expected her to start waving to people, calling out things like:

Hey Bob, where's that policy paper we went over yesterday? I want it on my desk in an hour!

Instead she casually mentioned:

This is where we might be doing a show next year. It's your project.

Parliamentary copyright images are reproduced with the permission of Parliament

Gulp.

I looked at the space we were in. The walls of Westminster Hall were erected in 1097. When you walk through this grave and stately building, you can feel the air particles resonate with the combined history of every single one of those years.

A show. Here?

How on earth can we do this building justice?

Time to get working.

Bob - where's my paper?