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.