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...