Is there anyone alive out there???

There are many things that could go in this blog. There are probably many things that SHOULD go in this blog. I should probably have shared that I got my first ever 'man' of the match award for hockey, and made it through the pint of snake bite that is the prize without dribbling or - a far bigger achievement - bringing any of it back up. I should also share that on a recent work trip to Glasgow I was converted to the cul of rugby by the presence of a large number of players and support staff of an Italian club. My eyes are still glazed from starring at them. Of equal importance is my pending trip to Brussels, where I think I will be forced to finish all of my Christmas shopping in one fell swoop, secure in the knowledge that whatever I get I will be able to put off any disgusted protests with 'I bought this for you when I was in Brussels'; oh, and if anyone's wondering what I'm planning to buy, it's chocolates all round. And by the tme I'm done, if they're anything like I'll probably be, they will be all round. But enough of what SHOULD be going to make up a post on the blog of a person theoretically having adventures in the big wide world, and onto what is really happening, since she appears to have become invisible.

I'm just back from another work trip, and forced to frantically do my washing before heading off again, cramming 7 days of London life into the 4 alloted. It was not a good trip, right from the start. I thought I'd allowed myself enough time to get to the airport and stop off in a bookshop on the way. Turns out, I hadn't. Or rather I had, but I hadn't taken public transport into my accounting. One brisk walk through the terminal later, and I was a pocket knife lighter. In my rush to get out the door, I'd forgotten that my cherished Victorinox green knife was living in the bottom of my handhag. It lives there no longer. With the load of work I had to get through at the hotel, it was a bit of a relief to find that I could race through the rooms and get all the photos I needed, and head back to collate the information on the laptop I'd borrowed. Except the lovely system administrator had set the computer up so that not only could I not connect to the hotel's wireless internet network - meaning all my study plans were voided - but it wouldn't recognise my camera being plugged into it either. No more work on that, it seemed. But the TV was there, so all was well, for a few hours, at least, once I'd figured out how to turn the heating down. No hotel room needs to b 25 degrees when you're trying to sleep. Then 4:21 rolled around. I know what time it was because I looked at the clock when I woke up, thinking that the oud ringing must have been an alarm clock. Sadly, no. Nothing so simple. It was a fire alarm.

I've been in this situation before. There is nothing less comfortable than standing on the street in your pyjamas. At least this time it wasn't snowing. I'd stopped to grab my coat, was proud of my forethought in getting my key as well, and hauled on my shoes - inadequate canvas numbers not made for keeping sockless feet warm, but better than the alternative. 4 fire trucks worth of firemen - at least there was some scenary - failed to find anything more than a disconnected wire. I, however, had discovered that standing in the Scottish night air with a bunch of drunken soccer fans is not as much fun as it sounds. Especially when they launch into some soccer song for the umpteenth time, or wander over to comment on the fact that, while they are drunkenly leering, fully clothed and barely able to see straight, you are in your 'classy' flannelette pyjamas. The fact that it took them a good 5 minutes of staring to work this out is no consolation. A pair of knees were planted fairly squarely in my back by an aging midget when the Scots finally decided to let me leave their fair city, and an old woman actually sat on my on the bus back from the station. I wrenched my arm lifting my case, and then got home to find that not only had something I was expecting to be delivered not arrived, but neither had the much-promised electrician been by to let us have light on the stairs outside the door to the flat. Thank god I had a torch with me.

So, for any who are curious, the life of a 'glamorous' architect is not quite so gorgie as you might expect. You do get strange looks when you're counting bricks to figure out rough dimensions of things when you forget your tape measure (although given that it's steel, and can give a nasty nick if you release it too quickly, I doubt it would have made it through security at the airport), and some even stranger looks when you stand around a hotel taking notes on the state of the furniture, or photos of the perfectly boring ceiling. But it's a living. Besides, I always have Brussels...

Did you know...?

Party invitations always come at the same time. You can go for days, weeks, sometimes even months, without a single invite, then in the space of four days in come 7 invites for the same 2 days. Then comes the dilemma. How do you choose which one to go to?


There is a noticable similarity between the word 'Kilt' spoken with a scots accent, and an english accent saying 'celt'. So, who thinks there may once have been some misunderstanding along those lines way back when? And who got it right in the long run? Was it the celt in the kilt? Or the kilt in the celt?


Austrian roadsides (and Bavarian, and Italian) are littered with large shrines and statues of holy figures, whether there as a memorial to some driver who lost their life on the generally treacherous winding roads, or to protect the drivers who are passing now. The shrines are generally placed in the most dangerous and precarious positions. But which came first? The need for a whacking great shrine to offer the protection of the lord on a dangerous stretch of road, or a nice big distracting statue for cars to plough into?


It is easy to keep secrets until you start talking. Then, the temptation to spill everything you know becomes almost overwhelming. Even being alert for all the dangers, there are icebergs that threaten to rip open the side of the vault hiding your deepest darkest secret. The iceberg is often made larger by the presence of alcohol.


Men and women will never truly understand each other. Need I say more?

The amount of things to be packed for a holiday will always fill the baggage allocated. The amount to bring home will always exceed that same baggage, even if no extra items have been added. By the same token, last minute packing always results in just as many things being left behind as careful and organised packing, but has the added surprise of the things that were caught up in the panicked throwing of things into the case. Who knew that a pair of slippers would find their way into a flatmate's case?


The part of the movie that gets talked over by a chatty friend will always be the part where the crucial plot twist is explained. This is the reason DVDs were invented.


Random observations can be patched together to make a blog post when there isn't enough in any one idea to string out a proper post.

Discoveries of a year

The first year of my time in London has been and gone. It was a big milestone, marked with a small celebration. With so many people marking anniversaries like that all over London at any one time, it barely rated a blip on the social calendar and so was consigned to the scrap heap when a work mate returned from her government enforced holiday with a shiny new work permit on the same day that marked my year away from the place I refer to as home - although now it is more generally known as home-home, since this little postage stamp of a flat is my home-away-from-home-home, or, simply put, home.

It came as a bit of a shock to realise that I now think of London as home too. I never thought that would happen, that I would be glad to get home to my plumbing-challenged flat, but there you have it. I have become a true Londoner without even noticing it, I guess. And I now know the secret of surviving in London, which is both handy and ironic given that I have yet to book any escapes for February yet, and I don't ski, ruling out pretty much every European holiday destination for that time. See, the secret to maintaining sanity in the hustle and bustle, the grit and grime that is London is to escape it regularly. I've been doing that since March, with at least one escape per month, and sometimes more. But the question now looms; how am I going to survive February, the coldest vilest month in the year for a land that is, at best, affectionately desribed as mucky or 'Blighty'? The truth is, that in order to survive London, residents have to escape it regularly. And just how on earth does anyone go from a whirlwind that has included Stockholm, Prague, Warsaw, Krakow, Cornwall, the Lake District, Edinburgh, Dublin, and various Uk cities to sitting in the freezing cold trying not to get frostbite, knowing all the while that their real home is having a glorious warm summer at that very moment, that in the depths of the night it's still warmer in Melbourne than the heat of the balmiest London day in february?

That, you see, is the other secret. It's called the West End, a place I have been indulging in freely since arriving here. There is no better way to blow a pay cheque than to go a glory in the skills and talents - or, sometimes, lack thereof - that can be found on a west end stage. Anything and everything is on offer at any one time, with something to suit all budgets and tastes, from the toilet humour and inane wisecracks of Spamalot to the cheesy Americana of Grease, the childhood memories tapped by Mary Poppins, or the twist on an old favourite offered by Wicked. So, what do you do when your plane gets snowed in in London? That's an easy one; you head for Leicester Square and see what Half Tix has to offer!

So, Ralphie, does this paint an interesting enough portrait of life over here? Amazingly enough, it is actually fairly accurate, and offers at least some explanation for the lack of emails recently. What with one thing and another, it is hard to find the time and energy to put it all down in print! Ah, the busy life of a social butterfly...and lord knows I've never been in the contention for a title like that before...

Anniversaries, reunions, commiserations

So, the first year of the great UK experiment is nearly over. The parents have made the grand journey to visit (and near choked me when I surprised them by turning up at their hotel as they were arriving - like I was really going to go to work and leave them to find their way around on their own!). My brother has split from his girlfriend/fiance of more than 10 years. I've survived the coldest, wettest, crappest summer on record in the UK - quite a feat - and intact enough that my campaign to stay longer than my visa will let me has kicked up a gear with work agreeing to help with my visa applications.

Sorry to anyone who's reading this and wishing me home. I'm sure there's at least one of you out there. But it's looking like I'm staying here for a while longer yet. Why? Why on earth would an Australian want to stay in London longer than the alloted time for a working holiday visa? It's a good question, to be honest. One that has stumped me or many hours as I've debated what I should do. Because as much as I love Australia, the lifestyle here in London is pretty good right now. As long as I get out of here every so often. Which is a good thing, since my list of places to go gets ever longer with another four places added for every one that gets crossed off. Next stop is a car trip around the UK with my parents, provided I can convince the hire car people that my licence is valid even without the international attachment, and that I haven't been here for a year yet and can therefore be allowed to drive the car. Oh well. Powers of persuasion to be exercised!

So things are moving along nicely here. Nothing terribly exciting, I admit - that's all happening at home, where my brother has moved into Mum and Dad's house while they're away. It's a big move for him, and we're all very excited to see what he does next, even if my Christmas surprise has been blown by his talk of travelling over New Years, heading to Japan. I was forced to tell him my plans, on pain of death. Oh well. The best laid plans of mice and men...

I'm a bit nostalgic right now anyway. Next month marks 10 years since I finished high school. The miracle of facebook has seen me reunitd with one of my class mates who lives in London, not far from me. Still, I don't think I'll be going to the Ann Summers lingerie party she's having around the date of the reunion at home, somehow. It's a little too strange that the first time you see someone in the flesh in well over 5 years is over a pile of lacy underwear!

The joys of being a member of the online world...

So. I have been so slack about my correspondence lately that it's even starting to annoy me, let alone any of the people who have been patiently - or not so patiently, in some cases - waiting to hear back from me about what has been happening over here in sunny London. And yes, it was sunny. For two days. Then the rain came back. And today winter made its long awaited return. So I thought I would as well. Because there have been many things happening in the world of Killi. One or two of them were even good.

I entered the world of facebook way back at the start of the year. I'm quite proud of the fact that I got involved before it REALLY took off as a global phenomenon, and was on there before the race for the most friends began. I was on it so long ago that I was over it before people started having pets, before someone started a group with the goal of getting enough members to persuade his wife to name their possible future child 'Spiderpig'. I was on it when it was still impossible to get onto it from my workplace, in the days before pressure from office pets persuaded our usually grumpy IT manager to let us have free access to the wonders, and therefore before the need for another group - 'Facebook is going to get my arse FIRED!' And now I can lay claim to another early first. I'm the first of my group of friends to be rejected as a result of what has been posted about them on Facebook. Yes, that's right. Someone pulled out of a date. His last words to me (by text message) were 'I've requested you as a friend'. He hasn't been heard from since. I'm not too hurt by this - although it does sting a little that someone seeing you in some truly appalling photos can decide to severe all ties. And given that he's still one of my friends and I get regular updates on the new girls he adds to his friends I've noticed that they are all girls), I'm kind of glad that my doubts about him proved right. But you still have to wonder...what has it about what he saw there that made him change his mind? He'd certainly been keen enough in the days before that!

Facebook has caused a greater closeness between me and several colleagues, though. People I never would have put as firends have requested access to my profile in the race to see who can add the most people to their lists. It creates something of a dilemma. What do you do when someone you really don't like, and don't want to grant access to, requests you? When this happened with one co-worker, it was a good thing that I could give him only limited access, even though I really wanted to simply ignore him. Another I was saved from having to do even that much be her "voluntary" departure from the company.

In fact, that particular colleague's departure was celebrated for more than getting rid of a potential online annoyance. She was painful to be around on many levels, kind of like a caar crash that repeats itself daily before your eyes. She was someone with serious problems that she brought with her into the office, if only in the tremors of her hands when she was sober and the reek of alcohol when she wasn't. Now the guys I work with can safely leave their beers uncovered without worrying that she will slip something into it. Directors can meet clients without being regaled with stories of her exploits with them in the back of taxis. Wives can let husbands head to work without worrying that they will be seduced. And my team can get through a day without hearing our name screeched from the door of the office. Yes, some good things have happened this month.

But, London being London, there is always something else in the offing to distract from the things that have happened the day before. Within hours of the leaving party for the nutbag we'd dubbed Screechy, I was off to Cambridge to enjoy a race meeting at nearby Newmarket, and planning a punting expedition on the Cam. A great weekend? Yes, it was. Even if there was no Facebook to get the group of actual friends through it, and we didn't discuss who had the most 'friends'. In fact, it was a great weekend even though it bucketed down in true English style all day Sunday and washed away our punting plan. For great rainy day entertainment, don't worry about firing up the computer. Go and see Jason Bourne in the Bourne Ultimatum, then figure out just how on earth he was still alive at the end of the film...talk about a superhero...

To be or not...

Lucy* came and stood beside my desk, mobile phone in hand. I barely glanced up at her, instead finishing the task I was working on. She slipped her phone into my line of sight, still not saying anything.

'I'm moving out tonight because it's not working. I was going to talk to you tonight," read the text message on the screen. It was from her boyfriend, who she'd been living with for 2 years. Looking up at her, finally, I could see the tears welling in her eyes.

'Come with me,' I told her, getting up from my seat and hustling her into the stairwell and then the ladies. She broke down and sobbed.

It wasn't a situation I was comfortable in. I rarely cry myself, shy away from the usual physical signs of affection with friends, and could generally be considered as clueless as the average man in knowing how to deal with a crying woman. Especially knowing that she had come to me for a shoulder to cry on and sympathy. I could sympathise with her situation, really I could; her boyfriend deserved to be taken out and beaten soundly for breaking up with her by text message while she was at work the day before her parents were due to arrive from New Zealand for a visit. It was perhaps the most lowly and cowardly action I've heard about in a very long time. So I could see why she was dissolving in tears. I simply didn't know what to do about it.

How do you console someone when the person they've followed across the world decides, quite callously, that they no longer want a relationship? How do you help someone set about the logistics of finding a new home, setting up their own bank account, separating the phone accounts, splitting the assets? When Lucy had pulled herself together, it was about all I could do to suggest that she might feel better if she washed her face.

Of course, I offered large amounts of chocolate, alcohol, and girly films later on, but right in that moment, I think I was almost as gob smacked as she was. And I wondered...how do you cope?

Since then, I've come to realise just how she's managing to stay afloat. She's determined to make him pay. She's used his concert tickets that he had bought for them - very expensive tickets. She's been shopping while they still have a joint bank account. She's figured out how to demand that he reimburse her for the time when they first arrived in the UK and she supported him until he could find work. And, most importantly, she's discovered the therapuetic benefits of the pash and dash.

Now, having seen two other break-ups of long term relationships that were screwed up by the men involved, I feel safe to categorically say, in the tradition of all single women, wherever they may be; Where have all the good men gone and where are all of the gods? Where's the street-wise Hercules to fight the rising odds? Isn't there a white knight, upon a fiery steed? And, like the jaded woman I am, I began to doubt...but then I met a lovely irishman who I will most likely never see again, spoe to him twice, and he was good enough to restore my faith in humanity and my belief that somewhere out there, perhaps over the rainbow, there is a place where there are good men still to be had. I want to book a flight there tomorrow. Damn the real world and it's logistical problems.

*Name changed to preserve at least some anonymity. I'd happily name the guy, but that would give the game away.

Those Lazy hazy days

It's summer in England. The longed for summer is officially here at last. After so many months of cold wet misery, I can finally bask in the glow of an English summer. Except for one thing. In the best tradition of English weather, summer ended on the day it officially began. Sunshine? Ha! Ask the people who had 6 weeks worth of rain fall in one night this week about that. Warmth? Given the frosty temperatures that have Londoners once again digging out their winer woolies, it's doubtful that any of us will be warm again without the aid of layers of clothing and external heating devices.

In one of the cruel ironies, the English seem to be firmly convinced that they live in a climate conducive to an outdoor lifestyle. One of the big four tennis tournaments has started, dragging many out into the night to line up for tickets in an antiquted ritual phased out by the other three grand slams decades ago. And it's cold, it's raining, and even Tim Henman gave up the fight for lack of light on day one after being rained off the court more times than is comfortable. I'm fairly certain the Wombles have been washed off the Common.

The music festivals have swung into motion; what does that mean for the lay person? Make a trip to the local gardening centre and get yourself a pair of 'Wellies', because if you had any intention of going anywhere near Glastonbury, you would have needed either a large supply of mind altering drugs - always a possibility there, by all accounts - or the full wet weather kit.

Mind you, if it wasn't for the turn of the weather, we never would have known that summer had arrived and might have gone on thinking that Spring was beautiful. Now we know the truth; Spring was really summer. Now all that remains is to count down until the second week of summer hits. According to locals, that should be some time around August. Here's hoping.

Changes

Many things have changed since I last posted on here. My flat mate's parents have moved on from our living room floor to a rented house in Scotland, much to the relief of all concerned I think. Semester 1 of my never ending studies has ended, leaving me with 2 whole months of freedom from thinking of things literary, and a guilt free devouring of crappy chick lit books filched from the shelves of said flat mate. The block of flats up the road from work has replaced the fence made of old world war 2 stretcher frames with something that was actually designed as a fence. I've moved to a new desk in my office, where I get plenty of visitors to discuss the madcap antics of various co-workers. I've secretly booked a flight home for Christmas. The only change left to organise is to get myself sorted with leave so I have a job to come back to.

My plan is to turn up at whatever Christmas lunch is organised. I think it should be at home this year, but I'm not certain. There are only 3 people in Australia who know about my plans - although I'm tipping by now it will be 4, and there will be at least one public servant squealing a little as she reads this. The only thing now is to wait to see how long I manage to keep the cat in the bag from the main people the surprise is intended for - my parents. I'm thinking this will put an end to the half asleep late night phone calls that happen every so often. Secrets, like swear words, tend to slip out a little easier when tired.

So, long may the changes continue, however much some things will always remain the same. My bank balance, for example, is always going to remain in single figures for most of its life, regardless of country, income, and occupation. But I guess you can't have everything...but it's fun to try!

No words

I was in Poland last week, doing the tourist thing in Krakow and Warsaw. I leanred some new words that I can't spell, and saw more tourists than I care to contemplate. I know, I was one of them, but I always find it frustrating the sheer number of people who go to places just for the sake of 'seeing' them, but never really see them. There are so many who could be anywhere in the world for all the interaction they have with local culture and people. I admit, I was a little like most of them. There were times when, travelling alone in a country where I don't speak the language and wasn't sure of where else to go, I made the unforgivable decision to go to MacDonalds. Once there, I had to force myself to order something that isn't on the menu at home. The comfort of finding myself somewhere familiar was enough in itself, however, and I found a lot of the time it was easier to simply skip meals. Perhaps that's why travel is good for the soul; it certainly isn't good for the body, one way or another.

One of the experiences that is part of the tourist circuit of Krakow has no right to be there. It isn't beautiful, although it is peaceful. It isn't part of the Polish cultural experience, although it was partly built by Poles and certainly had a huge influence on the development of the country in many ways. A couple of hours by car from the city, thousands upon thousands of tourists and school children head there every week to be shown around by guides. There are few who go there without being touched in some way. It wasn't something that the Polish chose to be a part of their country, and I'm certain that plenty of them would like to disassociate themselves. Yes, one of the must-see-sites of Krakow is the Auschwitz concentration camp. Or, more properly, complex of camps, since the horror was spread over a vast area.

It has been said many times that it is hard to understand man's inhumanity to man. I couldn't say what made this site special in any other context. It was next to a perfectly ordinary town, in ordinary countryside. Now, with trees and grass growing across the area and in the remains of the gas chambers, still in the state of semi-collapse they were reduced to when the retreating Germans blew them up, there is a certain peace about the area that is to be found in many parts of the countryside across the world. So how is it that an estimated 1.5 million people died there in the most horrendous ways imaginable? How oculd people let that go on? And, more than 60 years later, why do people like me go there and find themselves teetering on the brink of tears in an emotionally draining experience, perhaps all the more incongruous for the sheer weight of numbers moving through the museums in a constant back log of human traffic?

Make no mistake. Holocaust deniers can pretend all they want that it is a conspiracy, but this is a real place. The hundreds of pairs of shoes found there are real. So are the mass graves, and the water storage areas still coloured a murky grey by the ashes of the hundreds of thousands who were incinerated. The Communists originally opened the site to the public as a warning against Nazism and the horrors which they inflicted, hidden across the countryside of Europe. There can be no doubting the enormous tonnage of human hair that was found by the Russians who liberated the camp as it waited to be turned into a textile used for, among other things, the lining of Germann uniforms. The photos of the disappeared, in particular the children moved many over the edge and into tears. Some teenage boys boasted that it didn't affect them, but the very fact that they felt they had to boast says enough, in my opinion.

So why visit the location of one of the worst acts of genocide in recent European history? Is it to understand what happened, and to try and avoid it happening again? There are many schools of thought that would argue no, that while the emotionally fraught experience hits people for a time, it doesn't stop them following orders and treating people inhumanely almost as soon as they leave. Is it to try and convince themselves, like some tourists tried to argue, that it wasn nothing to do with their own country, that there was nothing the allies could have done to stop what they had to have known was going on? The arguments ring hollow, even knowing that the Germans did everything they could to hide what they have to have known was a hideous blight on the landscape of civilisation. So why, why go? For some, certainly, it is simply to say that they have been there, seen it. But for the others? It is a little of everything. Because, for all that we can never understand how people could do this to each other - or hope we couldn't - the people who did this were, often, just like us. They were ordinary people who turned a blind eye, who believed what they were told. There are no museums that capture the apathy of so many people that allowed the horror to take place. There are no words to explain the feeling of guilt that washes over people like myself, who weren't born until decades later, with the question of whether we could stand up and resist the pressure of a tide of hatred, especially if it wasn't turned on us but on our neighbours. If we're honest with ourselves, most of us know that answer as we stand outside the building used by Josef Mengele for his horrendous experiments, and we know that it isn't the defiance we wish it was. That's why people should be visiting Auschwitz, to make them aware that it oculd easily happen again, and to recognise the signs in our own society that it is possible.

Educating Killi

Now I've experienced the joy of getting out of London, I can't wait to find myself once more outside the confines of a place where it seems to be perfectly acceptable for one person to be pressed up against your back in a not-quite train ot quite crowded enough to warrant it, while a little further up the carriage another indulges in what seems to be a city-wide hobby - nose excavation. Having seen both of these this morning on my way to work, I'm even more enthusiastic in my count down to the day when I leave again. And, thankfully, it isn't too long until I'll be so busy that I won't have time to notice any of that even in the brief intervals that I'm home - although that will be for an entirely different reason, no doubt.

This weekend is party central among my friends, and it kicks off with what I heard described as 'the new Friday' - a Thursday night with a funcction at a supplier. I think the supplier is more aware that they wouldn't get nearly as many people exposed to their product if they held it on a Friday when it would compete with the attractions of friends and freedom. Luckily, they are also aware that there would be even less chance of getting people along if there wasn't also the promise of free food and, perhaps more importantly for most people, drink. It's one of the perks of knowing interior designers that I get to go to these soirees every so often, and I tend to try and take advantage where I can. That said, I'm looking forward to the friends part of the weekend more, when I spend 2 nights partying with some of the more sociable girls in London - my hockey team.

Somewhere in that mix, though, I'll be meeting up with a complete stranger who got my details from one of the convoluted grapevines that lets people meet in London when they lived in Melbourne their whole lives without the need to. She's the recently arrived girlfriend of someone my Dad works with, here and alone. I can sympathise with the daunting loneliness of first arrival, and I had at least one person I knew. So I'm squeezing a coffee into my busy schedule somewhere. Who knows where, but it should be nice.

And when I'm back in my flat, alone thanks to the flat mate being back in Oz for a while, I still have plenty to keep me busy. There's planning the road trip that will see me being a pirate in Penzance, looking at the end of the world at Lands End, and perhaps even not mentioning the war in the hotel that inspired John Cleese to create Basil Fawlty - I'm going to Cornwall. And beyond that are trips to Poland, Prague and Stockholm that have to be daydreamed of. Yet somehow, I'm still finding that what gets my attention most is my laptop. Not for research purposes, either. All I can say is that I love unlimited downloads and Limewire. Yes, I know, sad. But with the whole of The OC, The West Wing, Supernatural, and, in short, any TV show (or movie) I could want at my fingertips within a few hours of downloading, why wouldn't I test it out? Because, afterall, setting aside period dramas and police shows, there's nothing on British television worth watching. Perhaps that's why so many men fall to mining their nasal cavities. Shudder to think...

(Re)Vision

Perhaps I ought to clarify that last post. It strikes me that it might be the teensiest bit negative about my life over here, and lead people to believe that I'm a)not enjoying myself at all, and b)detesting London with a passion formerly unknown in me. So I figure I need to explain a little bit.

I do enjoy myself, quite a bit. Work is far more bearable over here than it has been at home since I graduated - and probably for a good couple of years before that, as well. I have a good group of people around me who are both friendly, and open to meeting new people with only the slightest of giggles at the name I'm so careful to hide here (yeah, thanks Mum and Dad for that one...it's special enough to have earned me a special award at the hockey team awards...). I go out, I take far more short holidays here than I ever would at home. I see more shows. I spend far more money on general living, and far less on clothes and shoes, but don't go without anything. I even survive the joys of house work. Just.

And London is a great place to visit. The main thing I have against it is the it isn't Melbourne, and it isn't filled with people I've known for at least 5 years who I can call at any time of day for a catch up. There are some compensations for living here, and they are easier to find when the weather is fine, like it is now, and there's one of the many beautiful parks nearby in which to enjoy the sunshine (and to try and sheild your eyes from the almost inevitable sight of a man well past his prime without a shirt on as he sunbakes - or worse, a woman in the same pose). The trees are starting to regain leaves, blossom is in flower all over the place and magnificent magnolias are found where before there seemed to be just a collection of twigs. And even though there seems to be a high incidence of both crime and personal abuse, you find that in pretty much every city. Once you get out of London, the English are amazingly friendly and helpful, as a rule, apart from one old man's inexplicable question (as I lugged a large backpack with a kangaroo embroidered on the side as part of the manufacturer's logo) "Are you American?"

I think I'm just in the grips of a mood that is as black as the grime that encrusts London buildings. I've been feeling a little neglected by some friends who have been rather busy at home (and yes, Ralphie, that includes you, auditors or no auditors), tired from listening to the never-ending stream of yelling people who wander my street at all hours, and the buses that rumble by through the night to get thse same people to my window, and the fact that it is a whole month, almost until I have another long weekend to spend out of London. Jaded is not the word...But I'll leave anyone foolish enough to have read this far with a snippet that sums up the wonderful people of London, in my humble opinion...

Most would be aware that London is to host the Olympics in 2012. The site of most of the work is in East London - much to the disgust of many. Among the many arguments against the chosen location is a reason that goes back to the days of the Blitz in the Second World War. East London had a huge number of bombs dropped, in an attempt to destroy the docks that were the heartland - or rather lifeline - of the English. A fair percentage of those bombs never exploded. There is more unexploded (and unmapped) WW2 ordinance on the Olympic site than almost any other part of England. The response of Mayor Ken Livingstone? We don't know where it is, or how much of it there is, but we've budgeted for it anyway. With a budget of £12 billion, you'd certainly hope so...

Never walk alone

It seems that I've been slacking off again. It took a none-too-sbutle hint in a PS on an email to get me back here, however often I've thought through some things to put online recently. This little thing called a life keeps getting in the way. So now I've had to go back to thinking about what I've been up to in the forever since I last posted anything, if only to keep Ralphie off my back. I'm here Ralphie. Slap on wrist accepted, and anything to keep me from having to deal with the complications of my company's new invoicing system, so this could be a long one.

My flatmate is heading home for a month to visit family and friends. I'm sure said people heard her squeals last week when she got the news that her nephew had been born. If not, they probably felt the unbounded enthusiasm that was being sent their way, to be followed in just under a week by an enormous suitcase of gifts for the newbie. The miracle will be that she manages to cram any of her own clothing into the case. But I'm having a hard time understanding her right now. I've been battling a little with homesickness over the past few weeks - not enough to make me go home, no, but enough to make me miss certain things a whole lot more. I'd be over the moon at the thought of a visit, and I've only been here for six months. So how does she feel to be heading home for the first time in 18 months? Absolutely, completely, totally petrified. For no reason that she can explain, the thought of the trip brings on terror. Like all fear, it seems completely illogical, but thinking through what I know about her, I think I can find the source of the problem.

She's far happier over here, more relaxed and content than she was at home. I think she enjoys the distance from any family troubles, and the independence of doing what she wants, when she wants, without having to explain herself to anyone. I know I appreciate those things. She enjoys getting paid well - very well, in fact - for her work, and throws herself into everything. In short, she is happy here, to the point of occasionally considering staying permanently (I hope I'm not divulging any secrets here). But when she comes back, it will be a month down the track, her parents will be following soon after, and she will have no job. She's not certain what she'll find at home and, being a generally insecure type, is probably worried that friends will have changed, moved on, or generally altered their views of her. How do I know that? Well, her dieting in the lead up to the big day would put a bride to shame. As she loses as much weight again as she ever gained from the Heathrow injection, I find myself taking a little stock of my own life here.

It's safe to say there is a little distance between London and I at the moment. I've been out of it all for the Easter long weekend, heading to the Lakes District for a bit of R and R, that turned out to be quite painful as what we'd thought would be a 2-day walk around a lake turned out to be a gruelling up and down trek out of sight of said lake. In a strange situation for people used to the well-defined paths of national parks in Australia, we found ourselves climbing stiles, trekking across fields that we were sharing with sheep, cows or horses, and wandering along world famous walking trails to spots that were either incredibly beautiful, packed with mountain bikers, or, in many cases, surprisingly like the Victorian countryside. Did I say wander? Hmm, poor choice of words perhaps, as anyone who is unfit and finds themselves walking for almost 40 km in 2 days will testify. I didn't so much walk the end of each day as stumble, and found it hurt more to stop than it did to keep going so, on the many photo stops enforced by my travelling companion every time she saw something 'photo worthy' (there are many sheep throughout Cumbria who are stills triking poses in the hope she walks by again; most of them feature at least once), I simply kept walking at my snail's pace and left her to catch up with me when she was ready. In spite of the pain, though, I came to love the whole fresh air experience, and the novelty of being able to drink tap water once again. I even managed to lose, for the time I was there, the persistent cough that has returned along with me to London. Or perhaps it was just waiting here for me to get back. But, to be honest, the only thing keeping me in London right now is the knowledge that I need to work to fund all the plans that have been made for the rest of the year. The trips, the shows, the sights, the debt. Otherwise, I'd be headed for the hills, the ocean, hell, the desert, in preference.

London is a filthy grimy disgusting city. It seems to be gripped by insanity amoung its teenagers right now, who are stabbing and shooting each other with a zeal that puts Melbourne's gangland murderers to shame. If the tube isn't breaking down, I'm being woken in the middle of the night as someone on my relatively respectable street tries to punch the living daylights out of someone else. And I live in a nice area. The climate is appalling (although thank god there is finally sun and warmth; not, apparently, enough for them to turn the thermostat on the heating to anything less than stifling, though). The people are unfriendly and, if you comment on the fact that they cut you off, you are likely to hear the words, 'You ain't in your country now, bitch,' fired back at you. Sure, it has its charms - the theatres and the shopping spring to mind - but, when the homesickness starts to bite, they aren't nearly enough to satisfy, however much they may help to take the edge off. So, why do I stay? It might have something to do with the ease with which I can get around Europe using this as my departure point. It has a whole lot to do with the charms of travelling on the pound, rather than a measly Aussie dollar. It has even more to do with the fact that it's in an english speaking country, a melting pot of cultures where it is possible to feel somewhat at home even as you despise its faults.

So no, I don't understand why my flatmate is in such fear of going home, getting herself stressed beyond belief. I'd trade places with her in an instant. But for all that, I'm not yet ready for home. Not in any sense of the word. My time will be up all too soon, if the speed of the past six months is anything to go by. So until then, I'll just have to suck it up - and try to avoid sucking in too much of the grime as I do.

A Tale of Two Parties

Once upon a time, in a big metropolis very far from home, a twenty-something girl had a dilemma. In the time she'd been in the far far away place, she'd managed to find herself two groups of friends, each very different from the other.

There was the group who she met in the place she went to everyday in order to get things like food, rent, and clothes. They were, generally speaking, nice enough people who were fun to spend lunchtimes and the occasional weeknight with. They shared interests like shopping, and going to bars, and all came from places a lot closer to where the girl herself came from. She liked them, but could admit to herself that it was possibly because she was glad of the company and, if she were at home, she wouldn't spend nearly as much time and effort with them.

The other group was made up of people the girl saw on the weekend when she went to chase a small ball and hit it with a long stick. They were a diverse, friendly, rowdy bunch, who appear on Facebook with loads of pictures of them in the pub after a match, and very little record of the fact that they turn up for games at all. They are more like the friends the girl left behind her at home, and accept people as they are, without judging clothes (the more for the fact that they stay in the uniform of the club), or any actions or stories not related to the activities and time they share together.

The girl was quite plesed with herself for finding two such nice groups of friends, and for doing it in such a way that there should never be any clashes in the demands they made on her time. Until, on a day like today, there were two parties for her to choose from.

On the one hand, there was the fancy, glitzy party, themed on James Bond, which would require the girl to go shopping for a new outfit with money that she would rather spend on other things, in a place that was, at best hideously expensive, and probably not her scene. The people were sure to be nice, and the surroundings lush. On the other hand, however, was the gathering around the corner from home, which was certain to be a far less lavish affair in far more relaxed circumstances, with little enough class to go round between the many who were going to be there. In it's favour, however, she could almost guarantee that, based on past experience, she would have a good fun night and be able to find her way home. What to do, what to do? Especially given that she somehow made it seem to both parties that she was going to the other one first, but would be turning up to theirs a little late, but better than never?

It came down to the people involved in the end, she had to admit. She saw the people from one party every day. She knew she should go to that party - especially since it was in honour of two people entering the third decade of their existence. But she knew that she wouldnt be going to Covent Garden tonight. She knew, deep in her heart of hearts, that come tonight, she'd be finding her way around the corner and into the basement. And in all honesty, she was quite happy with the idea. It was, afterall, a far better party she was going to than she had been to in London before...

The Magnificent Sevens

Somewhere, deep within the heart of London, there is a hockey team that is made up of the players rejected by the other teams in the club. This team, the sevens - as opposed to the other six ladies teams - sits somewhere in the bottom half of the league table, and are destined to remain there. This team is not what you'd call skillful. There are plenty of players who hadn't played until the start of this season. Others hadn't played for years. A few are juniors, considered too young by the other teams. Then there are the ones who are neither fit enough or skilled enough to make the grade for the higher teams. There's one who enters the beauty pagents around her home area, and missed a match one week to compete in the Miss Mid Cheshire contest. Others are students with free time to spare - and energy to burn. Then there are the professionals, women in their mid- to late twenties who join the club for the social side of it. One is a teacher, another working towards becoming one. They come from all over, not just England, but the world. Apart from my little branch of the antipodes, there's a Kiwi, an American and a German-born Belgian. There isn't one who is actually born and bred in London. But for all the differences and the fact that, until a couple of months ago most of us didn't know each other, probably wouldn't have wanted to, somehow, out of the trainwreck of our playing ability, a team spirit has been created.

On the field, we are generally a disaster zone. We've won 3 matches this season, much to the surprise of many people who witnessed the early attempts of the team, in the days when they were struggling to pull together enough players for a team and managed to set a new club record for the greatest losing margin. Given the long history of the club, it would surprise a few to know that never before had there been a 20-0 loss. There has been a marked improvement in the playing ability of the team, but the tendancy to collapse in the face of a slight challenge from the opponent means we tend to lose matches by fair margins. Like last Saturday, where the final score was 5-1.

For all that now, we've become a tight unit, defensive and agreeably turn up at the clubhouse week after week to commiserate over our latest loss or, on the rare occasion, to celebrate with the other victorious teams the club is more famous for. And at last we've discovered what it is that the team is good at. We can't dribble the ball, most of us can't hit further than we could run in about 2 seconds, a couple have glory written all over them, but haven't discovered how to pass to a team mate. We can't tackle, we barely manage to score. We scrap, we struggle, we follow the ball like 10 year olds, crowding each other and on the odd occasion even tackling each other. But we become a tight fighting machine in the pub that doubles as a clubhouse. We can outlast, out party, and out talk any other team. We can get to the bar with more ease than any other, and we're generally among the last ones there. We're very proud of the fact that, when we lost 15-0 to the team above us at the club - the sixes - who are also in our league, we managed not to deck any of the nasty pieces of work who celebrated each goal with such harshness during the match. Instead, we merely stole the dice that provide the entertainment at the after-match gatherings, and proceeded to sit around with 2 of the guys teams who were also there. We kept it nice, being more honourable in defeat than some of them had been in victory. And here's why.

Sure, we all have a bit of a competitive streak in us. We like to win as much as the next person. But we're about more than that as a team. We're there for the fun. A game is no longer fun when it turns nasty. When our opponents on the weekend turned nasty and tried to take down our 15 year old juniors, we rose above it. We might have been outclassed in the stick work, but we were determined to enjoy ourselves in spite of them. It might have been nasty to laugh when one of their players got a bloodied nose in a collision - OK, it was - but the accusations being flung at our captain that she's done it deliberately, and had elbowed the girl (who'd already pushed over the two smallest and youngest players in our team) were laughable. Captain courageous was nursing a bruised bum from her part in the collision, and still has no idea how the other girl's nose ended up hitting her with that much force. After all, she was clearly not looking to see who was running up behind her when she had the ball and was headed up the wing. So laugh we did, and then promptly named the bum in question as man-of-the-match afterwards. We could see the funny side, even if our overly aggressive opposition couldn't. We giggled all night about it, to tell the truth, and we weren't the only ones. And, with six of us still in the clubhouse and gearing up for Karaoke after 11 that night, in the long run, we were the winners. Arms around each other, collapsing in giggling heaps, we all looked after each other, we planned excursions outside of the hockey world, and we supported and encouraged each other. So, regardless of the result on the pitch, the sevens are, unarguably, magnificent.

Snow falling on wellingtons

The snowfall last week, followed by sunshine on the weekend, meant that the full gamut of English winter weather was experienced this week. The famous English weather, with rain, and snow and fog and brief sunshine. The snow was even more impressive than the last fall, lasting through into the day, long enough for snowball fights in lunch breaks. There were still lumps of snow three days later around where the kiddies had made snow men. Some of the folorn little heaps still had carrots sticking out of the top, the remains of Frosty's nose.

Sunday saw a brief interval of sunshine that had me heading for the park while my flatmate was off testing the waters with her new boy. Heading towards Regent's Park and Primrose Hill, I discovered a breed of Englishman that I had thought was extinct. The wellington-boot wearing wannabe country squire who walks through the city parks as though walking through the grounds of his country estate. It almost comes as a surprise not to see a rifle broken across their elbow. A large hound-type dog usually accompanies them, dirtying up their tweeds and macs with its boundless enthusiasm for chasing things. These are hunting dogs that never get to run in the large expanses of the country, doing the tasks for which they were bred. Instead they live in apartments in the leafy belts of London.

The sunshine brings them out, along with their families. Women drive - not push, it's definitely driving - three wheel prams (or rather, since I'm in England, pushchairs) alongside, clearing a swathe with their inability to steer the large machines holding their pastic-wrapped off spring. With the weather so uncertain, the plastic covers remain on the prams just in case. Laarger childran trot alongside with balls and boots on, jumping in the mud puddles that line the footpaths, much to the disgust of their designer-clad grand mothers, walking serenely in thier wake. On the path, but gazing wistfully at the mud and longing to join his grandchild, the patriarch of the family strolls along, occasionally throwing something for his faithful hound to chase in the grassy expanses of the park. The way they walk, it seems as if they own the place, lords of all they survey. They certainly never give way to the mere pedestrian coming the other way on the narrow path who was foolish enough to think that normal confortable walking shoes would do the job. I had thought they were a dying breed, but a walk in the park on Sunday reassured me that English society hasn't changed in its essentials for centuries.

Another thing I'd thought was lost forever is spring. And there are hints that it is on its way. Yes, there was snow a week ago. Yes, it's been cold. Yes it's been miserable. But the bulbs are coming up, the magnolia trees are covered with buds, camelias are in flower and there are hints of green starting to show on the trees. It's still light-ish when I leave work, or not quite dark at any rate. There is hope for a time of spring and light and, most importantly, sunshine. And I long for it. Two winters in a row is more than anyone should have to bear. The fact that I'm in the process of planning two summers in a row in 2008 is irrelevent at the moment. I crave summer, in spite of the dire warnings of stifling heat and humidity. I want warmth! And now, with the increasing hints of greenery, I see a chance that I might make it through. But not before I do the dinner dishes...Sadly, not even Spring can save me from housework.

Rites of passage

It's the middle of cold and flu season over here, and if the amount of coughing that goes on is any indication, there's a lot of it around. I have my own share - and possibly someone else's as well, I'm thinking. So I spent yesterday sitting (lying) on the couch watching DVDs that were sent over to me from home. Talk about good timing. Last time I had a cold, I kept it a secret from Mum an Dad so they wouldn't worry, only to find that they had a bigger secret in Mum's slipped disc in her back that landed her in hospital and still has her on pain killers. I got away with that one, but did think to ask them for some of my comforting honey and eucalyptus lollies that I suck like there's no tomorrow when I get a cold. It's a ritual. And they arrived here at 9am yesterday morning, just in time to get me through the vileness of this cold. Which made me think. there are so many rituals people have to get them through whatever it that's going wrong - or right - in their lives.

How many people out there clock watch when they just need to make it through another day at work? How many have a little tick, a twitch, an itch? And how much of that goes on around me in any one day? I know I'm not the only person in my office who isn't exactly committed to a career in architecture. Having seen the face of a visiting friend fall when I couldn't manage to name a single building in London since 2000, apart from the infamous gerkin, that was worth visiting, I know there are some out there who are devoted to their career. My flatmate, an accountant, is not passionate about her work in the same way, but she clearly enjoys it. Her perfectionism drives her to do the job well. There are plenty of people out there who don't feel like that. I happen to be one of them. I've tried to get her to strive for mediocrity (it's far easier to achieve, and, when you reach your goal, can be just as satisfying, I promise) but she continues to aim for the impossible. That's what gets her through. Striving to make no mistakes. I just try not to make too many that will cause problems for the occupants of the building, whoever they may be. Mind you, doesn't mean I think I catch every mistake I make. In fact I know I don't. Somehow it doesn't worry me too much, because the thing that gets me through my days at work is knowing that the pay off is being able to go away.

One of my friends at home in Australia is falling back on her saving routines right now, I'm guessing. She's just found out that her boyfriend of more than six years, who she'd figured she was going to marry and had started looking for houses with, was cheating on her. Several times, actually. It's hard when you find out this information and you're on the other side of the world. You want to be there for your friend. I'm fairly certain she's needing her friends right now. I know they went through the ritual sorrow-drowning last Saturday. In a twist of fate I was out drinking at the same time for at least part of it. She's going through several other time honoured routines for getting over a scumbag scoundrel of an ex. She's circling the wagons of family and friends, and purging her life of everything relating to him. She's also planning the soul refreshing break of a girly holiday, and adopting a new motto for her life, and in particular her relationships with men - play with them, then through them away. I'm not sure I agree with the last bit, but the spring cleaning part could help.

At the other end of a relationship, my flatmate is relying on rituals to help her know what to do with the world's slowest moving romance. It's kind of cute and old fashioned that it was a huge step for this brand new shiny almost couple to hold hands. Not something that happens very often in this day and age (and listen to my grandmothers' voices coming out of my keyboard right there). But it suits the two of them. It's like a sweet old school courtship ritual, or rather a dance, where each has to be aware of which steps the other is taking. The only difference to the centuries old routine is that it's not lead solely by the man, but rather they take it in turns to advance by millimeters. And it's the rituals that let each of them - each as shy and sweet and uncertain as the other - know that the other is not running away, or just a friend. They've finally gotten to a point where I think they feel a little more comfortable together, and it's a relief to my ears not hearing about it all the time to be honest. But that was just another ritual that was repeated with the agonising attention to detail of the perfectionist. Every move, every word, every interpretation had to be gone over in infinite detail to make sure that nothing was missed. And here we are, with the two of them planning a night out for Valentine's Day. And another ritual to see them through the next phase of their relationship.

Who's the slacker now, then?

OK, so I've been at best lax in my responsibilities as a blogger. Or maybe even worse than that, maybe I've been lackadaisical. I'm fairly certain I'll be forgiven for this, based on an explanation of what's been going on. In short: I've been working. Working on actual work-related things, that I get paid to do, and am expected to do on a regular basis. Shocking, I know, but somehow releiving to know that I can make it through days (alright, weeks) at a time without coming onto a blog site. Or rather without writing on a blog site. Because I have been checking them out. Other peoples. In my lunchbreak, of course. I'd never, ever be so irresponsible as to do it during work hours. Never.

Friends back home will tell of how I've been curtailing my emailing activities as well. I still haven't gotten around to sending the promised photos of snow in London from the freezing cold day last week when the white stuff stuck around long enough to coat everything in a beautiful white cloak, covering all the dirty smuttiness for which London is known in a veil that concealed all the harsh ugliness of even the nearby council flats. I have some pretty ones, and I will get around to it, I promise. Honest. Sometime soon. Really.

Mind you, there have been ventures internet-wards. There was the foray that netted me a trip to Dublin for St Patrick's Day in March. There was the research I've done to figure out if I can afford a trip on the Trans Siberia railway. There was submitting my invoice for my work each week. Then there were the emails with an immigration expert who told me that I don't qualify for the better visa that I wanted to get - just as well, because this way I feel much better about not even considering paying out the £1600 necessary for it, once I'd picked myself up off the floor, that is. Even better though was the email from another friend that informed me of other important information. Turns out the little restriction in my visa about only working for 12 months of the 2 years I'm allowed to be here actually means I have 365 working days at my disposal. Not 12 months. Not 52 weeks. 365 days of actual work. The world is my oyster with that kind of information! The things I could do with both the money earned and the time I'll be over here - the mind bogles in a most pleasing way at the thought of it. It's almost reached the point where I have so many options I don't even know which ones to daydream about anymore. When day to day routine saps my energy and gets me down, do I look at flights home via the Americas? Or do I see about a week in Scandinavia? And I have to wonder...

You see, routine is an isidious thing that can drain your energy and your will to fight. I know. My routine here has become so solid that I'm almost enjoying the daily round of work, losing hockey matches at weekends, and commiserating with the team in the pub afterwards, then recovering from the wake on Sunday. I see the same people every morning on my way to the Tube. There's the father and son who sing songs and play as they walk the other way. There's Zombie man, who both looks and moves like an undead creature from a horror movie, right down to the greying complxion and the stiff arms held at an unnatural angle as he walks. The girl who has the same coat as me, but never as many good hats. I see my money leak from my bank account each week with no idea of where the hole is so I can plug it and have some quality shopping time with the little bit that gets saved. And the upshot of this? I'm in London on a working holidy maker visa. I talk to my grandmother on the phone and get told to enjoy my holiday. But the way my life is going, as much as I'm not hating my existence at the moment...

I really need a holiday...

Slim was wrong

Slim Dusty once sang that there was "nothing so lonesome, so morbid or drear, than to stand in the bar of the pub with no beer". Well, it seems I've found a more morbid and drear place. In fact, I've found several. I'm in one of them right now. It's called an office on Friday afternoon, when you would rather be curled up at home in bed dealing with the cold you know is coming.

Another one is London in winter. Don't get me wrong. London is a great city to live in for the lifestyle. There's always something going on, a place to be, people to meet. It's always interesting, even if it's just in observing the nightly fights on the late night tubes, or the way cricket disappeared almost completely from the newspapers once it became clear that the Australians were going to wipe the floor with the English (5-0; it doesn't get any sweeter than that). But London is, for the most part, not a healthy city to live in. It's filthy for a start. Being the victim of a cold, my flatmate has taken to inspecting the products of blowing her nose lately and informing me of the exact shade of green. From my own certain knowledge, there is no way any of what she tells me can be entirely true, because nothing comes out of anybody's nose over here without it being tinged with black thanks to the disgusting air quality. It's a brave soul indeed who drinks water straight from a London tap, as well. Personally, I won't even cook with it, because of the scummy residue I've found in saucepans that were filled with boiling tap water. And what it does to wash your hair in it is not to be thought of. So London is still the dirty, filthy metropolis it was in Dickens' time - well, OK, maybe not quite so pungent, but certainly not what I'm used to coming from the lovely environs of Melbourne.

And then there's the London weather. Anyone with half an eye on global events in the run up to Christmas would be aware of the London fog that had British Airways cancelling over 800 flights. It was labelled as a freezing fog. I never understood what that expression meant until about December 20th. Everything does freeze over, and you simply can't see. Anything. Ferries were cancelled, flights cancelled, trains delayed, traffic jammed, and footpaths icy. Actually, I have a theory on this last point. I firmly believe that the current trend for ballet slipper style shoes originated in London, after women rebelled against the damage inflicted by walking down the at best uneven, at worst downright hazardous London pavements in high heels. They simply grew sick of the sprains (not to mention the heel replacements) and decided that, in the face of the impossibility of resurfacing every London footpath with a level, even paving, they would have to take matters into their own hands and begin wearing sensible shoes. Mind you, I believe it was my sensible shoes I was wearing a couple of weeks back when I rolled my ankle on an uneven lip between pavers. And that was without factoring ice. Perhaps the unevenness does have its advantages though. It certainly stops the slip of your foot as ice threatens to take it from under you. And it helps your ice skating technique no end. I'm not so certain on the upside of the dog poo scattered across the pavements of Europe in abundance, however.

So there you have it, the sad truth about London. It's a dirty decrepit town, kind of like the family member you keep secret because, well, their personal hygiene doesn't quite meet the usual standards. But at the same time, you grin and bear it when you visit them, especially when you're young. Why? Why does that old, disgusting uncle hold such allure? Because it's jsut so bloody fascinating to hear what they have to say, to see what the life that you dare not lead yourself is like. And, in most respects, London holds a similar interest. The dignified skirts of old Melbourne have nothing on the brash, baudy tales hidden in London. The vile weather - actually, this is probably the same in Melbourne - has lead to the development of an interior life, richer culture. Alright, that might not be true. But there is a pub culture to die for over here, and surprisingly friendly and tolerant locals. And it's so close to so many other places, that most Australians will put up with the conditions for a while, just for that chance to see Europe without flying for 24 hours. And there you have the allure of London to the Aussie traveller. Combine that with a chance to reinvent yourself as something, someone completely new (because, after all, who really know you over here?), and its irresistible for most. Although i do wonder what it would look like without the rain to wash it clean so often. England with an Australian climate? Unthinkable...

What a difference a day makes

The difference between Monday and Tuesday, and it's not what it usually is. Yesterday morning, I woke up in Lyon, France. It was, admittedly, a filthy disgusting hole of a place (I have the mozzie bites up my arms to prove it), but it was holiday, it was away, and it was New Years Day - public holiday! I'd been travelling since the 23rd, seeing exotic locations I'd never been to before. I had cramps in my calf muscles from all the climbing. For anyone unfamilliar with Lyon - hich will probably be most people, I admit - most of the city is beautifully flat, stretching between the Rhone and the Saone rivers. This was not the part that our hostel was in. Behind the heart of the old town, a steep slope climbs its way up towards an eleborate church. Halfway up this slope, there are roman ruins. There are great views over the whole of the city from the top, assuming pedestrians survive the climb to the top which leaves fit healthy teenagers (who had the nerve to laugh at their red faced elders) panting for breath half way up when said red faced elders went past them at a steady pace. And shortly after that half way point was the entrance to the mankiest hostel in France. The home of the cold shower in a cupboard, of rooms with no sound proofing whatsoever, of breakfast served without any reference to such luxuries as plates. There's no other reason for me to complain about Lyon though. And even the hostel had its good points. Their names were Rick and Martin, and they were from New Zealand. Nice boys, and their friend Josie, who told us about a park that kept us busy for a few hours. Who would have thought 2 adults could have so much fun on a little kids train? One of them also provided the inspiration for our hours of trekking around Lyon, waiting for a crowd to gather near the ferris wheel for the countdown to midnight. It doesn't matter that there was no official countdown. We had fun. And so did the french men who kept trying to talk to us until our preoccupation with (and squeals of delight over) fireworks proved too much for our limited french to overcome.

And then there was today. After a Christmas in Paris, climbing a fog-shrouded Eiffel Tower, a couple of days seeing the beautiful sights of Geneva, and a luxurious couple of days by the Mediterranean in Toulon, it was an understandable shock to the system to find myself back at work this morning. I wasn't the only one though. Apparently, it was the biggest sick day on record in London. I'm sure they were all at home clinging blindly to the memory of the sun they saw on thier break. I know I was having vivid flashbacks to Toulon, and the luxury of going without not only thermals, but scarf, gloves and hat as well.

Mind you, I was also incredibly glad when I woke this morning to find that I had my own room to myself again. After the succession of increasingly batty room mates between Paris and Geneva, the solitude was almost divine, in a way that none of the tourist infested churches I visited in my travels could manage. From the Australian whose voice had an uncanny similarity to tha of Kath Day-Knight, of Kath and Kim fame, to the Turkish woman who had found her way to Switzerland, ostensibly for medical treatment, and carried her worldy goods to the toilet with her every fifteen minutes or so, or even the lovely American girls who checked into our hostel room at the sensible time of 4am on New Years Day, we've had it all. Lucky for us, the sights were so beautiful, and the people we met away from our rooms so lovely to us, that the trip was a dream.

But for all that, it felt like it never happened within about 2 minutes of stepping out the front door this morning. My empty bag might reproach me from it's resting place in front of my wardrobe, my photos might scream at me from the camera to be uploaded onto my computer, but the holiday already seems so long ago that I can barely muster the energy. And so the countdown to the next trip begins. A day ago? A lifetime more like.