Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Going Dutch

I dipped a toe back into the world of internet dating not that long ago, and now I'm facing my first date since Kiwi decided his head was in it but his heart wasn't - whatever that may have meant, after a couple of months - back in May. This time it's an American, a New Yorker, no less, an archaeologist who is taking me to the British Museum. But there's a bit of a dilemma looming.

See, he's told me that it's best to book tickets for the exhibition in advance, which is fair enough, and he's told me that he will take care of that. But he's also told me how much the tickets are. Now, does this mean that he is expecting me to pay him back for them? Don't get me wrong, I'm not objecting to the idea. I'm not one of those girls - and I'm not saying it's a bad thing - who expect guys to bear the brunt of dating expenses. Sure, it's nice when they do, but I don't demand it. I figure fair's fair; when women weren't working, sure, the guy pretty much had to pay, but now that women are quite capable of supporting themselves, it's nice to step up and at the very least offer to pay their own way, in my opinion. But it does leave me in an interesting situation, now. How on earth do I deal with this? Do I not mention it, and see if he does? If he does, it could easily become a deal breaker. If he doesn't, he might end up thinking that I AM one of those girls who demands the guy pays for everything. But if I do bring it up, well, that's another awkward moment.

It would be nice to get a guy's perspective on this, but there aren't any handy that I feel able to mention it to. In fact, the only one handy is Flatmate C's new man, who I met for the first time tonight. Given that we were scoffing dinner, L was in her pyjamas and I'd left a plastic bag in the bathroom filled with hair cuttings from the new fringe I've just cut for myself, I'm not sure C would appreciate me bringing up my dating queries and wanting his opinion. Although maybe she would, I don't know.

But on the plus side, I figure going to a museum with an archaeologist has to be better than going on a school trip, right? Sure it has to be. Oh god, now I'm going to be worrying about that too. And that's before we even get to the part about what on earth am I going to wear, and the parties the night before that could leave me bleary eyed, fuzzy headed and generally not my usual sparkling self. God I hate dating. But then again, I quite often hate not dating more. So once again, faced with the lesser of two evils, I choose the most socially acceptable one, like the conformist that I am. Now I have to go and make sure I have an outfit that is clean and ironed...and I think I need new boots. Yes. Shopping. That will solve everything...

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Some Like it Hot

For one reason or another, it seems that London is awash in good looking men at the moment. It started on the plane back from Australia, where it seemed that the cabin was filled with stunning, well built blond men (it turned out that there was an army sports team heading off on a trip). Even the cabin crew seemed to be providing eye candy, and more unusual, seemed to be predominantly straight, if the looks they gave a few of my fellow passengers is anything to go by. Walking around town on the weekend, they were out in force, and the tube to and from work has had me so distracted that I've barely read any of my book. Hell, even an interior design function last night provided a selection of ruggedly handsome, exceedingly well dressed men in some kind of procession past where I was stationed with my former colleagues.

So what is it that's bringing all these stunners into my path? Is it that they're always there and I don't notice them? Or perhaps I'm in such a good mood after my holiday (even the directors at work commented on how relaxed I was looking during my performance review, no less) that I'm seeing them in a Shallow-Hal type light, seeing their inner goodness. Or perhaps - and this is the angle I prefer, I think - they're being thrown into my path as a sign of something good to come. Who knows, one day one of these distractions might be in a similar frame of mind and might notice me, too. Am I too optimistic, thinking that somewhere out there, the fates are weaving a nice little reward for being such a patient, good, kind person, the type of friend who takes their flatmate's dress to the dry cleaners?

Yeah, it seems that 2 weeks off work has been just the tonic for my temper. It hasn't interfered with my sarcasm, though, you'll notice.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Flights of fancy

I'm back in London, rested, broke and ready for anything except work, apparently. As long as I can slink off to bed at a decent hour, that is. The dreaded monster of jet lag, which only left me alone in Melbourne after a few friends dragged me, kicking and screaming all the way, out to a pub until 3 a.m, is once again raising its extremely ugly head. But I will fight on...if only because there's a big design-related free party on Monday which will hopefully cure me of the lag, even if it does cause some other problems.

It was a long flight back. Or it felt that way to me. On a trip that was emotionally charged thanks to my homesickness, I wasn't really in the mood when told by the check-in girl that I had to either remove 4kg from my luggage or pay through the nose for it. It seemed illogical to me that I should have to put it in my carry-on where it might cause an injury to someone (or rather instant death, given how heavy my carry-on already was) by falling out of the overhead locker and landing on someone. It was still going to be on the same plane, after all. But I still trudged my way through her instructions, ending up with the lightest baggage I've ever checked in on a flight back to Australia. My record is 33kg, a full 10kg over the limit - but still no excess fees, thanks to being tired and, without even meaning to, turning on the tears. Amazing how well that works when it's a guy on the receiving end; women are far less sympathetic.

So there I was, with 15kg resting gently over my head and watching the safety announcements. I was parked at the very back of the plane, along with all the other cattle who couldn't afford the equivalent of a deposit on a small house to fly to the other side of the world, when I discovered there is more than dollars (or pounds) involved in the difference between cabin classes. On the new Qantas A380s (I'm a geek for knowing that, yes, but it's a new plane and I was excited. And besides, I AM a geek, so of course I knew what plane I was on. And it was written on the side of it. And they told me in the safety announcements...there was no escaping the knowledge), not only is there literally upper and lower class (it's got two storeys), but in first class, they even get better seat belts. Now, I know in the case of emergency, the economy passengers usually have the better end of the deal (as a comedian whose name I've forgotten once pointed out, did you ever hear of a plane reversing into a mountain?). First class may get to lie flat in their fancy beds, they may get served champagne and are allowed to eat off chinaware, with actual cutlery (what, terrorists don't have the cash to fork out for first class?) but now they also get a better seat belt, similar to the kind found in cars. So as I struggled with my belt, which actually - and slightly alarmingly, during some awful turbulence - loosened every time I moved, breathed, curled my toes, somewhere on the plane, others were sitting secure in the knowledge that they weren't going anywhere. And they were doing it without being surrounded by teenage school children who were yet to discover the volume control for their voices. They weren't being disturbed every 5 minutes by the people next to them wanting to get up and stretch their legs, go to the loo, get a drink. They certainly weren't concerned about a 15kg bag dropping on their heads. And they probably weren't plagued by visions of how forlorn and lost their parents looked in the Melbourne gate lounge as they stepped onto a domestic flight to Sydney.

But then again, maybe they were having visions of exactly which part of the plane hits the ground first...yeah, I'm sure they were thinking that as they stretched out in their beds upstairs. They were bound to be envying the hoards crammed into the space below them.

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

One Hundred Yards of Solitude

I spent today swimming in an ocean of empty office space. The girls I'm used to sitting near have now finished. They guys at the other end of the room seem to be a world away - and they make no noise. I've hardly spoken to anyone all day. It's a very strange feeling. But it did give me plenty of opportunity to do things other than work.

For instance, I spent a good sized chunk of the day researching for my Christmas trip with L to New York. We were very excited when we finally got around to booking, me having watched the fares go up gradually as I tried to pin her down on whether or not we were actually going. And now I've been watching the budget end of he accommodation market slowly dry up. And I've been finding out other things, apart from the fact that the "budget" end of the market in New York around New Years Eve has prices similar to the "holy crap that's expensive" end of the market in any other city at any other time of year. How many other places would set the bed rate - and this is bed only, just the one, with no ensuite bathroom privileges attached, no complimentary breakfast - at £90 a night, like one Times Square hostel has? Even worse, in how many places would you look at that location go, "Well, actually..."

Because before Ive even gotten there, I'm experiencing a slice of New York crazy. But apart from the nuts prices of the base rate for a bed, I'm having other problems. Assuming we do find a hotel that seems reasonably priced, that is in an area where I wouldn't be either spending my entire trip on the subway or be afraid of being mugged, I run up against another problem that exists solely because I'm not wanting to share a bed with the person I'm sharing a room with. Yes, because I have the temerity to be a single traveller with a friend, I am ineligible for half the hotels in New York. It looks that way from the internet, at any rate. A few emails fired off have shown that the response rate, the famous American customer service, is distinctly lacking, as well. Yet again, it's looking like I'm going to have to take a beating for being single. Like being in New York for New Years Eve and having nobody to snog at midnight isn't enough all on it's own...

But that's my gripe out of the way. Now I've just got to fend off more texts from excited family at home who keep demanding whether I'm packed for my Saturday flight, or not. It's Wednesday...If I'm packed any time before midnight on Friday, I'll think I've done well. In the meantime, save your cash, peoples.

Monday, September 07, 2009

Heart attack city

I've just been dealing with a minor panic situation. In fact, it's not just, and it's not minor. Not in my scheme of things at any rate. See, I woke up this morning to find an email waiting for me from my thesis advisor, basically demanding an update on my progress, the submission in draft form of a chunk of writing, and giving me a general kick up the bum. Now I'm a lazy student, yes. I tend to wait until the pressure of the deadline is so intense that I will submit the first draft I have at around the word count that makes vague sense and passes the spell check. How I've made it through so many years of university study with only one call up before the unsatisfactory progress committee is a mystery so deep it almost needs its own university study to fathom it. But I've never, ever, managed to totally wipe off my radar a 16,000 word submission. Nor have I ever thought that there was no chance I would get through everything with over a month to go. That overwhelming feeling of imminent failure, which I use as the spur when I'm pulling all-nighters, generally strikes in the last two weeks of semester. This was the first time it's ever hit me in September.

So, quaking in my boots, I dug out everything I have so far on my thesis. It's a small collection of notes hauled together last semester while working on other assignments. In no way could it be stretched to the point where it could constitute a thesis. If I needed a fire to survive and this was all the paper I had to make it, it would barely outlast the match. I'd be dead from whatever dire situation was needing me to make a fire - the stress of today has taken away my ability to think up meaningful metaphors. Because at intervals today, I was having panic attacks, diving into my bag and pulling out something in an attempt to structure an argument, a thought, anything that could save me. And I was coming up with nothing.

Thank god for email, though. Because while I was sitting playing with finding a hotel for my New York Christmas trip (as a side note, the price of hotels in New York is truly extortionate, especially when the trip is going to include New Years Eve), an email came through from the lovely thesis advisor, offering to grant me an extension. That was fine, I could deal with an extension, but I hadn't been aware that I would even need one, so I fired back a response straight away in the hopes of being able to sort out what the hell was going on, and how our wires had been so drastically crossed.

A few explanations later, and it seems that she made a mistake. I can breathe again, at last. Even more important, I should be able to sleep tonight without guilt overtaking me. I can do all the tasks I've set for myself before the trip home (if nothing else, I can finish the bag that I started ages ago with a view to being able to safely carry this laptop, given that it's bigger than almost every other bag I both own and am allowed to carry onto a plane...). Now all I have to do is clear my bed of the small pile of paper, the 2 laptops (notes on the old one that haven't been touched since they were put there) and the monstrous mountain of novels that I'm writing about. Then I can work on getting my heart rate and adrenaline levels back to normal. So about three hours of sleep tonight then. I'm going to be so productive at work tomorrow, clearly. Again.

Sunday, September 06, 2009

Standing in the way

The latest issue of the Sainsburys magazine has an article that caught my eye. It's all about control freaks, how they develop, how to identify if you are one, and how to manage your symptoms if you are. This seems especially relevant given that I'm living with one. Of the ten questions they gave, Flatmate L answered a definite yes to 8, and a qualified no to 2 (I still argue that if the reason your answer is no is simply because you do something part of the time, not ALL of the time, it's a fairly solid yes. And saying no because it's a question about relationships with partners and you're single is also cheating). I scored 2 out of 10. No surprises on either front, really, given that we're basically Oscar and Felix. I'll leave it to you to figure out which of us is which.

My personal gripes related to intolerance of other people's lateness (there wasn't anything about my own tardiness in there, so that was fine) and a hatred of other people touching my stuff. Whilst L shared these things, she seemed to be surprised about the latter answer coming from me. We were having this conversation in my room, the door shut for study time not having deterred her from coming in and parking my bed. She looked around my room in surprise. I will be the first to admit that I'm not the neatest person in the world. In fact, given time, I could end up being one of those people who have stories about them and the health hazard their living environment presents to others. But there's still a clear path around 2 sides of my bed, and at least part of the mess comes from a combination of study and my extra-curricular money raising activities at my sewing machine, so I was fine with the mess. I did, however, have some objections to the idea that just because I'm a little bit relaxed about putting things away, I would be fine with someone coming in and poking around in my stuff.

I think part of the surprise from L comes from one of her more irksome habits of the moment. When she doesn't launch herself onto my bed on her nightly visits for random chatter, usually barging through a door closed to give a hint that I want to be left alone, she stands by my desk picking up whatever flotsam and jetsam happens to have floated to the top. She reads my letters, she flicks through my books, she pokes through my sewing materials, she smells my perfumes and creams, she comments on the amount of chocolate I have piled up ready to be taken home for presents. And it drives me insane. How she hasn't noticed the teeth gnashing before I have no idea, but she doesn't seem to notice when I tell her to get out either, so I'm guessing the need to talk to someone can blind her to all else sometimes.

Perhaps I'm being over sensitive. After all, this did come after she walked in tonight, fresh home from her trip, still with her pack on her back, and started berating me for having the nerve to be running through a load of washing. Apparently, I was supposed to know what time she would be home, and to assume that she would be taking control of the machine from that moment until she heads off again on Tuesday. Sadly, my own need for fresh clothing got in the way. That and the horrific effects being felt this morning after last night's debauchery at a friend's flat-leaving party. If I'd been able to handle any sort of movement before 4 this afternoon, I'm sure I would have dealt with my washing sooner. Actually, I probably wouldn't have, but the anticipation of a night home alone was driving me forward at that point. It wasn't to be, however. So now I've messed with her sense of control, and shocked her with the elements of my life that I like to have some charge over. And I've got a whole three weeks of thinking of ways to mess with her head and take away some of her control, with my new-found knowledge. Because sometimes, as wrong as it sounds to say it, it's just fun to torment the obsessive. Besides, I'm sure it's good for her...

Saturday, September 05, 2009

Mediocrity/Satisfaction

For some reason I got up at the ungodly (for a Saturday) hour of 8 this morning. Woke up suddenly, fully alert, and unable to do my usual stunt of rolling over and going back to sleep for another three hours. Anyone who has seen me in the mornings knows that I generally wake up dead, so the fact that I was able to not just get up, but to navigate my way around the detritus of my last holiday still scattered on my bedroom floor shows that something was up. The past couple of mornings have seen me staggering to my bedroom door, semi-blind and nearly falling over every two steps as I trip over a sock, a shoe, a rain coat.

In honour of my unseemly rising, I headed for my laptop. Can't do anything too noisy, there's a flatmate still sound asleep next door. So to the interweb, that rescuer of people everywhere who should be doing other things. And I discovered that Stephen Fry has posted another mini blog. It seems he's been busily writing away. It must be the season for it. I've been attempting to work on any of the half finished novels I have floating around, but seemingly only able to shift a few commas in what I've already written. But there are some gems in that mini blog that make me feel better about the fact that every time I get around half way to the finish line I get a chronic case of writers block, and have done so since my first attempt to write something longer than a short story at age 11 (it was a re-working of S. E. Hinton's Outsiders, my favourite book of the time) fizzled off with me having filled about 20 pages of an exercise book in a mad flurry, then crawled through another five before giving up in disgust.

I've heard before that satisfaction is a sign of mediocrity, and if that's the case the one thing I'm not is mediocre. But that could mean that I'm either appallingly bad - not impossible, when I read back over some of the things I wrote when I was younger - or really, very good. Obviously, I hope it's the latter, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it's the first one. Until I read the Thomas Mann quote that Mr Fry so kindly included in his blog. It's almost like he knew that there are would-be writers out there who crave the knowledge that this writing lark isn't as easy as some make out. I had already had some inkling, largely drawn from the experiences of Emily Starr in L. M. Montgomery's semi-autobiographical books (the one who wrote Anne of Green Gables. She also produced a host of other books about girls growing up in Canada).

Fry writes in the early hours of the morning; Montgomery clearly did similar things, writing in a fever until the idea was on the page. Colleen McCullough had to change her writing style when her eyesight began to fail and she could no longer manage to write long hand in exercise books as she had done for entire career. Her production rate seems, to me at any rate, to have slowed as a result. There are stories about struggling authors working twelve hour shifts in a post office, then going home and writing for another five. So I feel better about the knowledge that I really only manage to write anything that wouldn't fit on a postage stamp when I'm supposed to be doing something else, and that I'm never entirely happy with it, always tweaking here, adjusting there. If some prolific writers have also struggled, it makes me feel that one day, I may just succeed. And given how many other things I have to do at the moment, I have to be headed for a particularly prolific time. Fingers crossed, I'll manage to finish something. In the mean time, I'm back to re-working the first half of three different novels, for the nth time since they were started - coming up on five years ago now. It has to end sometime, surely?

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Homesickness

I've been back from Norway for less than twelve hours. I'm already over going into work and finding myself almost torn to shreds by my own stupidity and inability to pay attention to detail. I have improved in my writing - I usually read over these posts at least once now, before posting, and pick up the most glaring of the grammatical and spelling mistakes, anyway - but when it comes to drawings, I'm still able to miss the most obvious of errors. I'm sure the architect I'm working under is ready to tear his hair out about having me on his team right now, poor guy. He seems to score a lot of the dopey techs. It must be because he's so patient and able to find so many of the things we do wrong. That said, it's reassuring to know that he's not perfect either. I'm not pointing it out to him, but a load of the things he gave me to do first thing this morning were things that I'd just changed at his request. Oh well. I'm on leave again after next week.

And that's the thing that has me a little confused, I guess. Because I've been homesick in the worst way for the past couple of months. I think I'm past the point where I'm ready to go home, even though I haven't made it through my list of things that I have to get done. When you start planning your route home about a year out from the date you plan to leave and gradually drop things off the radar in order to throw more at the leaving, it's time. When you spend your nights camped out in your bedroom avoiding people in general and flatmate in particular, it's time to go. When you find yourself unable to handle the foibles of your oldest friend in the country, it's time to book the flight. When you get emotional just hearing someone say something good about your home, about helping someone plan a trip to your least favourite Australian city, you've been away for too long. And that's the point I find myself at. I constantly have a Peter Allan song running through my head telling me that I still call Australia home. I've been to cities that never close down, after all, New York for Christmas, London for almost three years, but not Rio. And I do love travelling and being free. But my - not my heart, really, but perhaps the closest I can come to a soul lies waiting there over the foam, and no matter how far I wander or roam, I do still call Australia home.

London is home too, but not in the same way. I don't get nostalgic for London when I'm not here. I can't imagine getting onto Google streetview to remind myself of how it feels to be on the streets. I miss the heat, the crisp feeling of a Melbourne morning, the sound of a crowd at the football, the excitement of the Spring Carnival, the roasted grass under feet, the sweltering days that drift into a night where you can't bear to close the window and lose the faint breeze that cools you enough to sleep. I miss being able to drive for hours on back roads without seeing another car. My friends, my family, my memories. I miss walking down a street and finding myself hit by a reminiscence. I'm so violently homesick that I'm wondering how I'm going to leave at the end of my trip.

Of course, I am staying with my parents, so I'll probably be glad to get back to my flat by then. But either way, whatever I say to express the longing for the wide brown land, Dorothea MacKellar's "core of my heart, my country", it's all been said before. Because for so many Australians, we may leave the shores, some forever, but for all except those like of Germaine Greer who appear to have fled the shame of coming from such a provincial backwater (well, it was the sixties when they left; spaghetti was exotic and foreign, pad thai unheard of), we always plan to return. It's always home. So, in a couple fo weeks I will be (cue the sea shanty pipes, sailors doing a jig and convicts in chains...) singing too-ral li-ooral li-ad-dity , singing too-ral li-ooral li-ay, singing too-ral li-ooral li-ad-dity, and we're bound for Botany Bay. Or something like that, anyway.