The art of visiting

I've been playing host to a house guest for the past week. I like to think I've been a pretty good host - provided spare keys so they can come and go as they please, directions at any time of day, suggestions for what to do, and three days of escorted touring that has added about 600km to the mileage on my almost-new car - at hefty cost in fuel considering that it's Christmas. Most important of all, I have taken her along to my family Christmas, making sure that she wasn't orphaned for the day. I have taken her to my friends' Christmas, including buying a Kris Kringle present for her so that she didn't feel left out. I have cooked for her on no less than three occasions, two of them after having been at work all day.

In return, I have had the pleasure of her company, received a bottle of booze, and had my dishes washed twice (although apparently, finding the place where everything goes was a little too much work). I have had my shower clogged with her hair, I have had my bathroom sprayed with water, my tap twisted out of alignment, my spare bedroom made into a bigger sty than I ever managed, every power point touched left switched on, every light in the flat on at various times, a hissy fit chucked when I dared to suggest that on Boxing Day perhaps I might see some of MY friends that I haven't caught up with for Christmas instead of trekking all the way down to the frigging Mornington Peninsula for her to see some friends of her aunt's who she met when she was 20. You'll notice, the one thing I haven't received - any sign of thanks.

I know I won't comment, but I have almost ripped her head off on several occasions, the best one being when she insisted that she knew my mother MUST have a particular cleaning product in the house, in spite of me knowing that she never used the stuff. My knowledge of my mother's house cleaning habits was, of course, inferior, because she dived under the sink and came out with the product in question, and a very smug look on her face (turns out that kitchen benches must be cleaned with disinfectant before dishes can be stacked on them - wiping them with a damp cloth simply won't do). Not sure she noticed it later when Mum picked up the bottle of cleaner and asked where that had come from, because she didn't know she had it. I'm also incapable of even folding my own laundry. A trip to the loo before sorting things into a state that she considered appropriate for them was too big a delay for her. I came out to find her folding my underpants, and not listening when I did everything short of swear at her to get her to bugger off and leave my clothes alone. If I'd wanted to move them, I would have done it myself, as soon as I was out of the loo. We've been mates for a while, but we're hardly at the point where it's fine to fold each other's undies.

Earlier today, when someone cut in front of me as they got on the freeway, and I benefited from the wonderful joy of her driving instruction, about how she would have acted. Me having my foot on the brake was not enough of a response, apparently. I should have changed lanes. I should have done this, I should have done that, because this delightful guest of mine is always in the right, and can never concede that she might be wrong - although she has proven to be so quite a few times. I should know all of this. In fact, I did know it before she arrived, but it had never been brought home quite so strongly to me before. Or maybe it had, during some of the weeks that we spent working together on hotels in the UK. I remember seething with resentment quite often, but knowing that me venting any of it could very well lead to a stand-up fight, so I always swallowed the bile that rushed to spill out of my mouth. And I've done it again this time, biting back the words that I want to say, the times when I can feel the steam about to blow the top of my head off. Or more likely, the top of her head. I'm not known among my closest friends and family for my subtlety, but I'm not close enough to this one that I will blow my top openly. So I seethe and plot revenge, instead.

But if she thinks I won't repay the favour of being the world's most annoying house guest by visiting her in Brisbane in 2011, she can have another think. Of course, I can't chuck a tanty when she doesn't dessert friends and family during the holiday season to chauffeur me around town - her family is still back in South Africa - but I can make life difficult for her. I can run up her power bills, her water bills, I can be messy, I can sit around and watch her prepare dinner after a day at work. I can give her advice on how she should be doing things, I can correct her every thought, wilfully misunderstanding her, and never giving an inch in an argument even when the people involved are talking about completely separate issues. I can do all of this.

The question is, can I do all of that and still keep the friend? I think not, on the whole. And the annoying part is, when she's not being the world's biggest know-it-all, she's great fun. It's just that at close quarters, the fun gets buried in the pedantic crap that she also spews, and the fact that you realise she doesn't know half as much as she thinks she does. I can't see the friendship lasting long-term, in all honesty. But I'll be damned if I give it up before I get a weeks free room, board and transportation in Brisbane.

Bill me

Somewhere out there, some companies have put together a list. On this list is the name of every person that those companies feel can be over-charged on their bills, without anybody noticing. Somehow, my name seems to have ended up on that list.

First there was Lumos, a power and gas company, who keep trying to charge me for power and gas. Two problems. Firstly, they aren't my provider, I go through a different company, which I have told them several times over. They still keep sending me bills. But the biggest reason why I know I don't owe them any money, apart from the fact that my name isn't on the actual bill? It's because at least some of the charges go back before I'd even signed the lease on my flat.

Then the phone company tried it on, adding a ridiculous amount to a bill, but deleting it as soon as I queried it, telling me that if I hadn't been informed about the charge when I signed up, then I didn't have to pay it. The ease with which I got them to take it off makes me think it's a "hit-'em-up-and-hope-they-pay-it" kind of charge. Well, nobody gets one over on this little black duck, let me tell you. Especially not to the tune of $80 a month. It all adds up.

This month, it was City Link who had a crack. I use the toll roads they administer for work, on the rare occasions that I have to head into head office, and even more rarely when I'm heading into town for a night out. It doesn't happen often. So getting a $140 bill for a month came as something of a surprise, especially given that the last month had been a zero balance. I shouldn't have been totally surprised. I'd had a warning shot fired over my bow last week, when they sent me a text saying that my account was being suspended. I couldn't work out why, but didn't get around to finding out why, because I wasn't planning on using it in the near future. But now I want to use it, and I can't. The strangest part is that nobody can actually tell me why my account has been suspended. All the bills that have been issued before have been paid. This one is in dispute, and only arrived in the mail today. The kicker, though, is that the account was suspended 2 days before the statement was even issued.

I have to say, I hate that the roads are tolled in the first place. The most commonly used stretch for me is a road that was built when my mother was still at school. I begrudge having to pay to use it. Before I moved away, I refused point blank to drive on it, out of principle. Notice, time in London has eroded my principles in favour of ease of use. Because it does make my life a whole lot easier, halving my travel time to and from head office. But if the price of convenience is a 25 minute phone call with someone who couldn't actually resolve my query, and could barely enter my problem into the system because there wasn't an automated option, then I'll go back to taking my time to get places. And if they argue that it was my car, I can call in character witnesses to help defend me, because anyone who knows me at all would agree, there's no way in hell that I was passing under one of the City Link gantries at 06:50.

So I'm issuing a warning. I've had enough. Any company that thinks it's OK to over charge me, or add false charges to my bills, don't say you weren't warned. Just ask Virgin in the UK. I am capable of prolonged phone calls where I am able to maintain anger and coherence, all at the same time. It might have taken me a while to get Virgin to do what they were supposed to, but I know how to do it now. And I don't have the cash to throw away on the whims of some accounts department screw up. If you see my name on that list, cross it out. Because one way or another, I'm not paying and you'll regret sending me a bill for something that I didn't use.

Fanatic

I need to start this post by putting out a disclaimer. I am not usually one of those fans of things who goes around trying to either become a character from their favourite novel. I've never knowingly stalked anyone (there may have been a few coincidences in bumping into people, or accidentally googling them; these do not count, because the people involved were not famous). I've never read fan fiction, either. For those not in the know, that's the sort of thing where someone who is in love with a book will write their own version of it, changing things a little to bring about a different outcome, or creating entirely new scenarios for future works. I knew it existed, of course I did. I am, after all, a bit of a nerd about these things. But only a bit of a nerd. Like I said, I'd never read the stuff before. Before, of course, let's slip that I've read some of it now. And it's all the fault of the office temp.

When I arrived at work on Monday, I found a note on my desk. Scrawled on it were the words, "You have to Google Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality.' It's FREAKIN AWESOME." (her caps). I'd heard her talking about various fan fic things before. Apparently in one version, Malfoy ends up with Hermione, which is what inspired her and her boyfriend to head along to the latest Harry movie dressed up as those characters. She's a big fan. But either way, I was a little wary. But it's been bucketing down so much this week and, in a moment of boredom at lunchtime, I checked it out. And now I'm hooked.

I'm sure it's just this particular version. And there are huge chunks of it that I just skim with my eyes slightly glazed; there's a whole lot of science in there. But it's like someone took Harry Potter and jumbled him up with Artemis Fowl, throwing in enough sci-fi and genuine science to get every nerd on the planet completely addicted. It turns out that a completely mad, despotic version of Harry, who is friends with Malfoy instead of Ron, and ends up in Ravenclaw, throws up a hugely entertaining novel (if you ignore the bits that go whizzing over your head). So I guess that means I'll be paying more attention to some of the suggestions made by the temp. But I don't care how good the fan fic is, I'm not dressing up. I've got to have some part of me that stays non-nerd. Or at least got to be able to pretend that. Yep, it's all about deniability. Harry Potter-Evans-Verres would understand, I'm sure.

The week of death

I'm in the process of dieting, trying to undo all the badness that was done during my race to the finish line on my thesis. It's going to take some work, apparently. I've entered the third week of the diet and, overall, I'm half a kilogram heavier than I was when I started, in spite of religiously checking my food, following a strict diet, and eating things that I would normally scrunch my nose as I turned away from. All in all, not the best way to spend the festive season, but I figured I'd seen enough sweet sugary or chocolatey things to get me through. Perhaps not. Cravings from hell for all things sugar, and nightmare withdrawal headaches for the first week. The headaches have eased, but it turns out that the cravings haven't.

And yes, the scales say I've actually gained half a kilo...what they don't tell you is that, due to what I think (i.e., hope) are ordinary fluctuations, I went up by 2.5kg in the first week. So I'm not telling myself that I've gained. Oh no, in my head, I've lost 2kg. Which sounds less impressive when you know that it's taken me 3 weeks to do it.Especially frustrating since the diet I'm following is supposed to drop a dress size in six weeks. Well, diet people, I'm halfway there. Where's my new wardrobe coming from? Oh, that's right. It's not. Because this week, not only am I entering the stage of dieting where I normally start to sneak back to my bad habits, but I'm also entering the week with the first Christmas party of the season. It's under three weeks to go, folks. My tree is up, my presents are, if not bought, then at least planned, and the festive season is in full swing. And I haven't had a a single mince pie yet. Not this month, anyway, and the one I had on a visit to Nana's doesn't count because, after all, she's my Nana... So, as the season gears up for the week of death for all diets, who thinks that this time next week I'll be griping about my eating habits? Yeah, fat chance...

When I grow up...

When you're a kid, everybody asks you what you want to be when you grow up. Fireman, astronaut, princess, - they rank high on plenty of kids lists, I'm sure. But I never really wanted any of those things. Sure, I liked the idea of being a hero, or of having people running around having to do exactly what I, beautiful beyond belief, wanted them to. But my aim never seemed to be as fantastical as all of that. For a long time, I wanted to be an author. This was back in the days when I actually finished the stories I started (although, based on evidence found in several exercise books buried deep in cupboards when helping my parents move from the family home this month, I clearly didn't finish them all then, either). Of course, those stories ran to 10 pages of illustrated drama - my all time favourite is titled "Murder in the Dark", written at age 10, and featuring dripping knives, things that go bang, and finishing with an arrest after the gruesome death scene - but hey, for a kid, they were master pieces. I was convinced that I would be published.

Once I'd given up on that dream, or at least pushed it further back in my mind, I wanted to be in the Air Force. Blame it on being made to watch The Right Stuff and Top Gun too many times, but I wanted to be a fighter pilot. I had visions of me flying all over the world, doing aerobatics, being an ace like the ones I saw in movies. Reality put paid to that dream when I got to about 16. As an unfit, lazy female, there was no way I was ever going to be put in charge of several million dollars worth of fighter plane. If I was lucky, they'd let me fly a cargo plane; women didn't get to do combat operations. And thank god for that, is all I can say, because the thought now of being in that situation is enough to scare the pants off me.

I think the last dream I had was to be a journalist; yes, the shy kid in the corner who has barely met a deadline in her life and certainly never voluntarily asked a question, you'd make a fine member of the press. One of my class mates did follow this road, into TV news. The other day I saw her interviewing the former deputy principal of my school and having to criticise her; it must have been a kind of bittersweet moment for both.

Notice, though, when asked what you want to be, it's always a job. No kid ever says they want to grow up to be kind, or funny, or anything that involves a personality trait. Maybe I'm noticing this because I'm evaluating what I want to be when I finally finish growing up - because 30 clearly isn't grown up enough. What will I end up being? I'm yet to settle on a dream that fits, but I don't want to resign myself to the idea that I will never find myself somewhere that is truly and completely me. Yes, I enjoy my current job most of the time. I could do without the whinging of a colleague, without the stupidity of people, but as far as jobs go, it's not bad. Somewhere in London, L is picking herself up off the floor at me saying that a job isn't bad. But I conceded long ago that work is a necessity; it just could be more...me.

So the search continues. My recent run-in with writing a thesis has put academia firmly out of my head. I've tried architecture and interior design with some success, but little joy. So the question remains; when I grow up, what will I be? If I figure it out, I'll let you know...

You're kidding, right?

I made the mistake of reading the Herald Sun today. It's always a mistake for me to dip into the tabloids. They only end up making me angry. But what can I say, it was the only available reading material at work at lunch today. So I read it, and proceeded to get angry.

See, it seems that the Australian PM has been visiting the other countries in the region, and she took along her partner, who the tabloid in question has patronisingly dubbed 'The First Fella'. I had thought that all the ruckus about having a female prime minister, and an unmarried on with a live-in boyfriend at that, had died down. I figured that the conservatives had resigned themselves to the fact that a woman is just as able to do the job as a man, and that anyone - even the PM - can live in sin if they choose to, without endangering the well being of anybody under their care. After the lashing that Bettina Arndt received following her comments about the relationship between Julia and Tim, a piece of writing that set Australia back about 50 years in most people's opinion, I had thought that it would all die down.

Except now it's flared up again. "Serious" media has commented on the man's dress sense and presentation, as well as her choice of clothing. But today's little stinger took the cake. Because apparently, the fact that Julia took her partner with her on a trip to Muslim countries has made her unsuitable to lead the country. It's supposed to be insensitive, and to have caused all of the leaders to pull out of meetings with them. Yeah, because people who live for politics let somebody's relationship status come between them and a potential route to power. Just as likely a reason for the cancellation of the meetings - which probably wouldn't have been made in the first place if her living situation was truly an issue - was the fact that there was a volcano erupting in Indonesia - a reason also given the Hilary Clinton for not meeting her this week. In Malaysia, the leader is said to have chicken pox. Yes, a potentially life threatening illness for adults, especially difficult for adult men. But no...he's faking it to get out of a meeting with the promiscuous woman who travels - shock, horror! - with her partner.

If she was a man, who installed his mistress as a secretary in order to take her with him on business trips, would there be so much comment? And perhaps the greatest irony is that the people who are criticising her for being insensitive to the Muslim beliefs that prevail in Indonesia and Malaysia are the very same people who attack the backwards world view of Muslims arriving in Australia from the Middle East and North Africa. What the hell, people? I know there are plenty of people who don't agree with living together without being married. Fine, you can have whatever beliefs you choose - that's the luxury of living in a developed, Westernised society. But don't think that it's OK to impose those beliefs on others. And don't think that as Australians, we have to choose our leaders based on the beliefs of countries in our region. Because those beliefs will never match each other perfectly. And at the end of the day, surely our leaders ought to represent our own beliefs? Call me nuts, but just a thought...

Welcome wagon

I love my new flat. Really, I do. I've been almost 2 months now, and it feels like home. I've got things how I like them, my stuff is everywhere, and I love having my own retreat from the world. Not least of its plus-sides is that it is 6 minutes from work.

And for the most part, I like my new neighbours. The senior citizens downstairs are friendly, the women in the next block always smile and say hello, the gardener is hot - as he should be - and very friendly. But the guys who share a landing with me have a little bit to learn about how to not piss off your neighbours. So I thought I'd compile a list of tips, all the things I'm too chicken to say to the white shoe wearers.

1. Never, ever play your music so loud that it rattles the plates in your neighbour's dish drainer. If they can hear the words - assuming, of course, that there are words - it's too loud. If they can feel the bass as they sit on the couch, it's too loud. If they have their own music on but can still hear your combination of turkish pop, rock, and south american pipe music, it's too loud. Same goes with your television, the football, in fact any kind of noise.

2. Don't fill your neighbour's bin the day after they have been emptied. How do I know it was you? Well let;s see...you has a party in the stair well till all hours, the bottles in my recycle bin are a lovely combination of girly sweet drinks and turkish liquer, and there's a collection of chip packets, pizza boxes, and styrofoam takeaway containers; I'm guessing it isn't any of the pensioners.

3. When you drive past my window, I should not be able to hear your radio.

4. When your friends arrive, there is no need for them to cluster on the stairs and have conversations that would seem loud if they were in my living room. Get them inside, shut the door, and shut them up. And they shouldn't have to knock on your door. Be an adult and get a door bell.

5. Smiling and waving in a Joey-from-Friends "How-you-doing" way is not neighbourly. Especially when I've seen your girlfriend.

SO there you have it. My tips for the cavemen next door. Now all I've got to do is get the ones on the other side of the fence to change the program on their swimming pool filter to not start at 9am on weekends, and it will be the perfect flat.

We've gotta stop meeting like this...

So I'm back in a settled existence, working, seeing friends, blogging, and it only seems fair that it was time one of my other stable occupations kicked in: I'm back on internet dating sites.

Yes, sad but true. And right now, I'm wrestling with levels of frustration that I should be familiar with, but somehow always strike me as something out of the blue when they come.

First there was the guy who messages regularly, seems interested enough, but never quite gets to the next level. He seems happy enough with just chatting via the keyboard, which I can see will get old fast. I've dropped all sorts of subtle hints, from the usual what's going on this weekend, to asking questions about cooking, where he goes, what he gets up to. Nothing shakes him loose. But without fail, every time I log on, he's there with a hello, however much he makes me work for anything more than that.

Then there is the guy who seems to have dropped me since I wouldn't add him as a Facebook friend. We've chatted a couple of times, and he seems nice enough, but I don't want to friend him, and have to explain to Dad, my aunt, my sister-in-law, my cousins, and various others, who it is that I've just added. It gets awkward. And that's without considering howmuch of my life he would have had access to. But he hasn't messaged me since I told him I hardly use Facebook. A little lie, but nothing too serious. His loss.

But I've saved the best for last, because he's such a cliche. The guy who opens with the line "I think you're hot" and doesn't appreciate it when the "compliment" is brushed aside with a flip comment. Apparently, I'm supposed to reply "Thanks, I think you are too". Catch is, I don't think he's hot. He might be interesting, he might be intelligent, but usually, guys like this, they aren't hot. If they were, I doubt they'd be scouring the internet looking for a girlfriend. Luckily, I have a handy blocking button I can push, and he has now been consigned to the interweb dating scrapheap.

Men. Honestly. Even through a keyboard, they still seem to have no clues. Of course, I'm so much better, given that I'm sitting on the other end of the keyboard, just waiting for a message. Because a girl can't be forward, she can't initiate anything. Lord, the hypocrisy.

The curse of suburbia

I live in the burbs, always have and probably always will, truth to tell. For the most part, it's not as bad a place to live as the intelligentsia would have us believe, provided it's approached with right attitude and a good set of neighbours. Growing up, I was pretty lucky. We only ever had one bad lot, the ones who would call the police to get our games of street cricket moved on, the ones we used to collect dog poo to leave on their doorstep, that sort of relationship. My new flat, well, things are a little different.

For the more part, I put up with my noisy immediate neighbour. I don't think he has any idea of just how loud he is, to be honest, and the elderly downstairs neighbours are probably too deaf to notice. As long as he keeps to a dull roar, I can usually deal with him. And his music. And his excessively loud-talking friends. And his stomping up and down the stairs at all hours. It's fine. You get that when you live in flats. I don't like it, but I deal with it. The problem neighbour here, I've never actually seen them; they're not an immediate neighbour, there's a house between them and me. But oh my god have I heard them.

They have a dog. I think it must be a puppy. Again, never seen, only heard. Because they don't tell it to shut up when it sets up with continuous barking at night. All night. It sets off all the yappy neighbourhood dogs. I'm guessing that they're telling it to shut up and let them get some sleep. I know one day I will be out on my balcony telling it that, if this keeps up. That was last night. Today, worse, if anything. It seems that the return of good weather has brought out the lawn mowers. Fair enough, I have no objection to mowing the lawn. It has to be done, and I'd rather they did that and kept the seeds under control so they don't make me sneeze. They did it this morning. Then, based on the sound of things, they did it again this afternoon. Then they had some sort of motorised thing going that I can only assume was doing the edges. Except they must have really sucked at using it, because they did it again. And then again. And once more. Then just once more, because they'd obviously missed a bit. In all, I think they fired it up about 6 times. And each time they did, I couldn't hear anything that I had going on in my flat. No music, no TV, no thinking. And I need to think. Because I'm still writing a thesis here.

In fact, they're out there again. I think they must have moved to the front of their house, because it's a bit fainter. It's not drowning out the sound of trams or traffic, birds, my stereo, my brain. It's just sounding a little like a dentist's drill now.

They clearly don't realise the risk they're taking. I've been studying for days straight, only moving away from the laptop to get on the wii fit and work out some of the kinks - I swear, if it wasn't for all the crap I eat while studying, I'd be fit as by the time this is done. But crap I am eating, drinking, inhaling. It's so bad, I actually craved vegetables last night. I'm hopped up on a combination of sugar and caffeine that I'm sure could trigger a heart attack in a lesser mortal. And now there's people messing with me. I'm hoping that either I get the thesis finished (pfft, like that's going to happen this side of 3am) or they turn off the bloody whipper snipper. Otherwise, I've got a fairly good idea that a local medical team will be performing a gardening tool extraction procedure later today, and it won't be from me. It's taken all my self-restraint not to litter this post with swear words. Don't think I've got enough left to deal with much more.

The Whooshing of a Deadline

Douglas Adams once said that he loved deadlines. More specifically, he loved the "whooshing" sound they made as they flew by. I'm getting a closer acquaintance with the whoosh today. My thesis draft is due on Monday, yet here I am, writing another blog entry. Interesting fact; the number of blog entries I make correlates pretty closely with the number of things on my to-do list. There's an inverse relationship between blogging and the number of days left on a deadline, as well. But somehow, on a glorious sunny spring day in Melbourne, it seems especially harsh that I have to be cooped up inside and writing about Marxism. I know, it's self inflicted. I'm not asking for sympathy. I have a feeling I wouldn't get much anyway. I'm just having a moan. Anything to keep me from examining the question of women as consumers/consumables. Yes, sounds entertaining, doesn't it.

It never ceases to amaze me just how many ways there are to procrastinate, if you really put your mind to it. I read somewhere that many perfectionists procrastinated, because they were afraid that nothing they could do would be up to standards, so it's better not to try. I must be the ultimate perfectionist, because I'm notorious for putting things off to the last second. At least this time I won't have someone nearby telling me I look dead when I surface after a weekend of no sleep. L is still safely in London, and nobody else here would tell me so bluntly except my Nana. Sorry Nana, no visits until my sleep pattern returns to normal.

All of which adds up to the fact that I should be doing something else. Anything to do with my thesis, actually, as long as it has a direct relationship. So what am I doing instead? Blogging. Playing online solitaire. Wandering through dating websites. Hell, I'm even considering housework right now, so desperate am I to avoid putting pen to paper - or hands to keyboard, at least. Maybe make a cake. Pathetic, isn't it. Meanwhile, the whoosh is getting louder...

Clarity

Thinking about it, I need to add a little clarity to the miserable post I've just put up. I know it was miserable. I'm kind of wallowing in it for the night. What can I say? Sometimes you just need to curl up on the couch with a vat of chocolate ice cream (or in this case a jar of Nutella). I think a few explanations are also in order.

First up, I am not moving back to the UK. I am not thinking of moving back to the UK. Not in any serious fashion at any rate. I'm back here in Australia, and I'm generally happy enough being here. There are many advantages to it.

So now that's out of the way, I should probably explain a few things. There may be someone reading this who has read my blog for a while, so they will remember that I had what I can only call a dark period for a while there. The bit where a friend who reads this observed that I sounded like I wanted to slit my wrists. Another friend became very concerned for me and attempted a kind of intervention. I'm not in that place. A large part of my completely wet blanket mood comes from two things; I haven't been getting much sleep lately, for one reason or another (mostly stress related, actually; did I mention that thesis deadline in the last paragraph or so?) and on top of that, I've started cutting back on my sugar and caffeine intake, attempting to get it to ordinary levels, which was one of the contributing factors last time I slid into the blackest of black holes. It's Spring, too, which in Melbourne means pollen clogging the nose, and, in my particular case, the type of headaches that can make you forget to breath, let alone to anything else. Add to that an epic collection of stupid people to deal with at work today (clue: if I'm asking you if you've sent me the latest version of the drawings, because I can't see the difference between this lot and the last lot, you're not getting your plans approved. Just a hint), and you have a vat of misery sitting waiting for me. And there was no Hellcats on TV tonight to jolly me out of it (Pretty cast? Check. Cheerleaders doing the physically impossible? Check. Implausible story lines? Check. poorly acted vehicle for a "triple threat" a la Lindsey Lohan/ Olsen twins movies? Check. God I love that show). And I'm having both a fat day and, given the sudden warmer weather and my need to have actual work clothes, wardrobe shortage issues. I'm not without reasons for being down in the dumps. I've decided to retreat into gloom and doom for the night. I live along, I have that choice and nobody is here to complain if I decide to listen to the Waifs sing about being in London Still on repeat. Or if I chose to blog about it. So sue me, because that's the only way anybody outside this room is going to have any impact on this mood, and by then I'll have moved on.

Oh good. Looks like I've made the transition into nasty piece of work. Tomorrow I shallbe all smiles, even if they're sarcastic, with service returned to normal. No need to confiscate pointy things just yet.

Irony has a name

This week has been a teensy bit surreal. Not sure where it came from, why it came, or how, but I wish it would go away. Because out of the blue, for no real reason, I'm suddenly missing London.

Yep, that's right. The weather in Melbourne turns nice, I get myself set up in a great flat, I pick up my new car tomorrow and I'm in a job that I actually quite like, with the prospect of some financial security looming, and suddenly I'm missing the grey, grim life that I led for the past 2 years. Go figure.

I first noticed it last Friday, after a night out with work people. Maybe it was because it was the first night out with them that I'd had, a night where nobody I knew was driving, where I stumbled home in the wee sma's, not having to sneak around fearful of waking anyone, or hoping that there was nobody deciding that I'd slept enough. Maybe it's down to the looming thesis deadline that's evoking memories of late nights in London, or perhaps it was the arrival of some London-related mail. I know I triggered it properly by downloading the latest episodes of Spooks, and reminiscing about all the times that I've run through the Bakerloo platforms at Charing Cross Station, just like Lucas et al were doing in the most recent, trying to pick where they were filming, and getting excited when I recognised it, just like I used to do with Australian films when homesickness started to bite back in London.

Or perhaps it's really all down to L's announcement that she is definitely coming back to Melbourne at the end of this year. It's truly the end of an era once she gets back. Sure, I've still got friends there, there are still people who I would visit if I was to go back. But she is the only one that I knew over there that I also knew here before I left. And when she comes back, it is almost certain to mean that I am here for good as well. And much as I'm loving being back in Melbourne - and don't get me wrong, I love this city like no other - I'm missing some of the freedom of being over there.

Over there I didn't get nightly phone calls from my mother. I didn't feel sit around doing nothing, because it's next to impossible to pin anyone down without booking them months in advance. I was out and about, doing things on whims without having to justify it to anybody. There is a freedom to living on the other side of the world to what you consider your real life, and I miss that. I miss the adventure of wandering a city that is older than my country, older than I can contemplate, where you turn the corner and suddenly you're looking at something that pre-dates not only your own country, but the one you're standing in as well. The twists and turns, the people.

I never thought I would come back here and wax lyrical about London. Maybe it's the realisation that I really can't move back there that has set me off. I don't think I would move back. But I would pick up huge chunks of it and move them here if I could. I think I understand what it was that made the colonialists attempt to reconstruct England in Australia, at least to a certain extent. I'm glad they did.

Actually, I think I know what has set me off. It's the realisation that both of my brothers are deserting the family Christmas, leaving me defenceless on Annual Family Fight Day. I can see their point; it's the first time I've been home for the festive season since 2008, so it's about time I shouldered some of the burden. It feels strange and slightly wrong to be once again contemplating a hot Christmas, let alone one at home but without half my family around.

It's frustrating to think of just how homesick I was before I made the decision to move back here, only to find that I'm missing London now. I had thought I was settled, but it seems I've been kidding myself, at least a little. I'm not really. It's nice to have a home, it's nice to be home, but damn I love to travel. Guess I'll just have to get down to planning another little adventure...

There's the rub

Today felt like summer. It probably helped that daylight saving kicked off overnight, meaning that even though it's almost 8 it's still a little light outside. It took me a while to work that out this morning. I have a phone and laptop that are programmed to set their own time, but my watch and all my other clocks hadn't changed. I actually had to get online to double check the time (thanks very much timeanddate.com, by the way. Lifesaver)

But that's all beside the point. I spent today with the windows of the flat open, basking in the glorious sunshine as I moved around, puttering (i.e. procrastinating) in my linen shirt and cut off jeans. For someone who feels that she has gone without a summer since early 2006, it was like a slice of heaven. Or it was, until a mosquito found its way into the flat. See, only two of my windows have insect screens. And, as fate would have it, they aren't the windows that stay open without props. So I take my chances, or I have until today. I shut the windows a little before sundown - prime mozzie time, in my experience - but it was too late.

And now, I have a problem. Two, actually, one on my wrist, one on my elbow. Which leads me to the question, how the hell did I not notice that there was a bloodsucker taking a nip of me on my right wrist while I was cooking dinner? It's not like my hand was still for long, either. Now I've got to keep reminding myself not to scratch, so it doesn't get infected. Because I'm allergic to mosquitoes. Of course I am. Sometimes, I'm even allergic to oxygen. Why would I not be allergic to mozzies? Bloody bugs.

And speaking of bugs, it turns out that my nearest neighbour here is a Collingwood supporter. He was home with a friend yesterday to watch the Grand Final replay. Personally, I wish that they could have just kept on repeating the draw until everybody gave up and moved onto next season. I wasn't actually watching the game. I didn't have to. I could hear the cheers from next door. One or other of them footy fans was outside smoking at regular intervals, polluting the air with smoke as well as sound. Turns out, mosquitoes aren't the only kind of bugs around here. Bloody Collingwood supporters.

So now I'm left with a dilemma. I know where the Collingwood supporter is, but there is nothing I can do about it. Whereas I can't find the mozzie, no matter how I search. A brief glimpse here, a flitting shadow there. But make no mistake. Once I find the little bugger, it won't be taking any more of my hemoglobin, that's for sure. If only I could do the same to the Collingwood supporter.

Meanwhile back at the ranch...

So, it's been a while since I blogged. Many months, in fact. Long enough for me to have re-established myself in Melbourne and thrown myself back into working, studying, and all from the comfort of my own couch. Long enough for me to realise just how unhealthy study can be.

It's all very well when you're young and have an active metabolism to live the student lifestyle. But I'm not sure whether it's down to juggling full-time work and full-time thesis writing, but something is missing this semester. I think it's called a waistline. Sitting around while I research and write several thousand words*, mainlining coke straight from the bottle to keep my energy levels up, with a jar of Nutella and a spoon beside me for "solid fuel" breaks, I have come to realise that my study habits will kill me if I keep it up. I'm back to being sleep deprived and somewhat grumpy. I have 2 days worth of dishes piled up on the kitchen bench - I have no flatmates here to pester me into cleaning them, which is good and bad; I also have another 4 days worth in the cupboard to use before I am forced to do something about it, so I think it's mostly bad, from that front.

And what do I have to show for it? A deeper understanding of the relationship between chick lit and what went before it? Perhaps. The realisation that feminism can go round and round in circles without achieving anything other than an increasingly dense collection of theory that has little or no application in a real world still riddled with inequality? Of course. A caffeine/sugar habit and will see me getting withdrawal once again when I cut back to a regular person's intake? Undoubtedly. A new high score in Spider Solitaire. A steadily increasing BMI and a lowered ability to actually move my arse off the couch. A sudden inclination to blog once again. Beyond that, I'm not sure. Then again, I'm staring down the barrel of missing a deadline, so I'm bound to have some second thoughts about the whole process, given that I can see a month ahead with little or no sleep. Seems I have taken something away from this process. My poor time management in London was not down to the number of invitations to do interesting things. It was actually because I suck at organisation. Huh. Who woulda thunk it?

*Researching and writing of thesis may not have actually been taking place during the time spent on couch. Or, in fact, at all in any time over the past 2 weeks, with the exception of last night.

On the dock of the bay

I like San Francisco. There are no two ways about it. The only thing I can come up with that is wrong with the city - it's insanely steep hills - are also something that adds to its character, meaning that the 'fault' is pretty much nullified. In a lot of ways, it reminds me of Melbourne. There are the street cars - including an old Melbourne W-class, still in its green and yellow livery from the days of the Met - the enormous expanse of water that fails to yield a single city surf beach, the local love of good food and music, the central shopping strip that is strangely reminiscent of Bourke St, and the glitzy neighbouring city that overshadows it all.

But there is one thing San Francisco has that Melbourne can't even pretend to lay claim to: The Bush Man. Although the name suggests there is only one, apparently, there are a few of them scattered around the city. Some, I've been told, even work in concert. The deal is this: take one homeless man, seated on the ground holding a branch that passes for a bush in front of his face. Place him near an object of street furniture, whether it be a bin, a seat, a light, anything will do as long as it's enough to register the object. To those looking directly at him, he will be obvious and will probably seem a little bit nuts. To those like L, who are absorbed in looking everywhere else, however, he will be invisible, just like all the other homeless beggars on the street who are ignored every day as a matter of survival for many city dwellers. He takes advantage of this invisibility to scare the living crap out of the unsuspecting. He suddenly thrusts aside his "bush" and yells, or simply thrusts the branch into the path of the passersby, having picked his mark carefully as someone who has not seen him, for maximum effect.

The result is hilarious for those who have noticed him (often by being given a fright themselves). It's like a hidden camera exercise. Only the tin beside him, for those who appreciated his efforts to amuse them to give him a little something back, gives away the fact that he is a genuine vagrant, not some actor with make up giving him the bad dentistry and worn out wardrobe of someone living rough. His wide grin suggests that he enjoys his job a lot.

The Bush Man has become a bit of a local celebrity. Tourists can even buy t-shirts that proclaim "I had the $^%£ scared out of me by the Bush Man". But it masks what is a large and growing problem, as far as I can see. Yes, he is doing something to support himself. It's a simple enough ruse that gives enjoyment - and fright - to many. But I have seen as many, if not more, beggars on the streets of American cities than I have seen anywhere else. In one of the world's richest nations, there are many who go without.

That this man is able to hide in plain sight suggests something about the collective consciousness of society when it comes to the down and outs around us. It is too easy to pretend that they are not there. The gratefulness of some beggars when you simply acknowledge their existence by shaking your head when they ask for money can be heartbreaking. I can't - and won't - give money to people begging on the street, if only for the security reasons I had drilled into me when I was younger (never reveal where you keep your cash, how much of it you have, or make it more accessible for someone who may or may not be able to overpower you), but I always feel terrible for walking by people who are obviously in distress. Yet the vast majority of people don't even notice that they're there. So well done to the Bush Man for taking the initiative and calling some attention to himself, if nothing else.

The Man from Independence

There was movement at the restaurant,
For the word had spread around,
That girls from overseas were in town.

The restaurant was in a town called Independence, a slice of southern California quirkiness offering a haven on the west side of Death Valley. That the restaurant was called Hooligans was just a bargain. But whatever the reason, L and I were clearly the biggest show in town, not withstanding the local "talent" occupying the stage with his synthesizer, a laptop, and a microphone. He was interested enough in us to ask from stage for details about us, where we were heading, where we had been. The waitresses came to visit us at regular intervals, even the owner/chef came out, missing front teeth and all, to see how we were going.

It's a strange feeling to find yourself a novelty piece. It was kind of flattering when we were walking from our motel to the restaurant/bar, to have guys literally hanging out of car windows checking us out (that doesn't happen too often these days. In fact, it never happened that often, even back in the day). But by the time the waitress had asked us for the fifteenth time if we were OK, it was getting a little old. Because this isn't a town without the occasional visitor. There's about 3 hotels, enough to accommodate the entire town, I think. There are hiking trails, fishing and hunting all nearby. It's between several major tourist attractions. I can't see any reason for there not being visitors to what seems quite a pretty town, if slightly quirky. My only guess is that we're 2 "girls" travelling alone, and that we're foreign. Either way, as interesting and flattering as it was to have so much attention, I think I'll be looking forward to getting back to being one of the tourist masses tomorrow in Yosemite. I'll just have to keep an eye out for Sam is all.

Troubled times

Approaching the half way point of the epic road trip, there are several problems that have reared their ugly heads. If I'm honest, I should have foreseen at least 2 of them. The rest? Well, nobody has perfect foresight, but hindsight is 20-20. Hopefully, I'll be able to avoid making the same mistakes again in the future. And some of the problems are beyond my control, so I just have to resign myself to dealing with them and moving on.

See, there are few things worse on a road trip - or any long trip, for that matter - than being sick. And so far on this one, I've had a cold that turned me into a travelling snot block between Boston, Philadelphia and Washington. And then, as we pulled into Chicago - snot free at last - I realised that I'd done something to my back. Something that made walking extremely painful. Potentially, something caused by driving through the storm from hell the night before - that's what I'm blaming. It's mostly eased up now, after experiencing Chicago largely by bus rather than the usual method of transport for L and I in cities - foot. But now, every time I have a long drive, every time the bed isn't just perfect, it twinges. I have to be extremely careful carrying my enormous pack, and I hate not being able to just throw it around. But physical impairment pales in comparison to some of the other problems.

Because whilst driving through some of the flattest, dullest scenery that America has to off in its northern states - thanks Iowa and Nebraska - L has become sulky. She's bored. And this has uncovered a fundamental difference in our travelling philosophies that was masked while we were jetting around Europe. She's all about the destination. And I mean ALL. The journey itself? Well to her, that's just the prelude where you plan what you're going to do when you get there, so anything that takes longer than reading the Lonely Planet is just wasted. Whereas I - the instigator of the road trip - am quite well able to cope with long stretches where there is very little to see. I'm not sure if it was my early training, taking long car journeys up through Australia's eastern seaboard, or if I'm just taking the Baroque view of things, where the journey is almost more important than the destination, but either way, I cope better. And by the end of a long day, where I have done the bulk of the planning and almost all of the navigation, since L struggles with map reading on the go, we're both niggly. And things get said. Like the bit where, after the longest day on the road that we will have, we were pulling into a budget hotel in Sioux City.

It was getting dark quickly, we'd missed a couple of turns and had to back track. All day I had been asked questions that I didn't know that answers to, that I couldn't know the answers to, never having been to any of the places before. And when she cruised into the car park - or what we thought was the car park - and asked what I thought was an idiotic question before accelerating so I couldn't see where to navigate her (because I have to tell her where to go, she not being used to or comfortable in unfamiliar places), I snapped. I told her to slow down, to stop asking me things I couldn't know, to take a look for herself. And we barely talked for the rest of the night. We unpacked the car in complete silence, she threw her stuff onto the bed (always the best bed...I don't know how she does it), and we went to dinner without her doing more than nodding. Last night was hardly better when I informed her that spending an hour at Mt Rushmore (which I knew would turn into 2 hours if I agreed to 1 - I know her photographic habits too well to rely on estimates of time to see places), at the expense of a couple of places further down that I really wanted to see, on a day when we will be spending around 8 hours in a car, that just so happens to be my 30th birthday, is not something I'm prepared to do. Sure, we'll be stopping there. We will see it. But she knew going in that this wasn't going to be an easy trip. And I think she underestimated just how much road time we'd be logging, and just how unprepared for long boring stretches she would be.

But not all of the problems relate to her (although her tendency to open the curtains before we're fully dressed, regardless of the outlook - or in-look - has caused me some anxious moments, as has her drifting and abrupt driving style). Perhaps the biggest problem is that I am fast running out of money. Boston and Washington DC sucked up too much of my cash and I'm now in the unenviable position of looking like I'm barely going to make it into the 3rd week of the trip before it's all gone. And when it's gone, there is no more. I have no resources to tap into. So how I'm going to pay my share of the car extras is beyond me. Although part of that is also caused by L and her insistence that she be put on as an extra driver, even though she refuses to drive in any of the cities and only does a few hours in the morning when we're in the country, or the evening when we've left a city that morning. Bam, there goes $145 of my carefully planned budget.

That's not to say that I'm not enjoying the trip, though. As I type this, I'm sitting in Custer, with a view of the Black Hills on the other side of town. Today sees us heading through the Wild West, towards Cody, and then Yellowstone. I'm loving what I've seen so far. I just wish there weren't niggles and worries to get in the way. And I've resolved never to do a road trip with L ever again.

Dazed and confused

I'm currently propped up in bed in a Chicago hotel room. I'm trying very hard to move nothing other than my finger right now, because I've done something to my back. I'm not certain when, or how, but I know that it wasn't there yesterday morning when we left the middle-of-nowhere place we were forced to stop in thanks to a combination of traffic jams and horrendous weather (think three hour lines of cars to get across the Canada-US border, followed by a storm with rain so heavy that I was driving at 20 miles an hour down a freeway, still barely able to see, and not even being overtaken). But it was there when the time came to lift my bags out of the car.

But either way, sitting here gives me a good view of the morning show that L puts on. If I didn't know better, I'd think it was just to provoke me. But I know better. I know that the fact we are in a first floor hotel room, with the windows open, curtains wide apart and cars and buildings all around us with prime views into our room is not enough to stop L from emerging from the bathroom wrapped only in a towel, shower cap still on her head, for some unfathomable reason. It's not enough to keep her from stepping out of the shower without a top on and standing in front of the window as she looks for something. Because it didn't stop her from stripping down to her flesh coloured singlet top before she went in, it never stopped her from essentially flashing the people up top on London buses from the windows of our old flat, and no doubt it won't keep her from putting on a show any time there is a window - because she likes natural light. And right now, there's plenty of that streaming through the windows. Luckily, it's Sunday morning. There aren't that many people out and about. Well, not compared to last night, at any rate. So I had better get on with getting myself organised for our day out and about in Chicago. But one thing's for certain: as I do that, I'm getting dressed in the bathroom.

Hilton: The 4 star screw up

One of the things we were really looking forward to on this trip was reaching Niagara Falls. Not only were we going to be seeing one of the natural beauties of the world, we had also decided to splurge and stay in the Hilton. It was going to be great; our room was high enough and cost enough that we were going to be having in-room views of both the Canadian and the American falls. We could hear the roar as thousands of litres of water rushed over the edge, we could almost feel the spray. We would be staying in luxury that would put our other accommodations (admittedly, chosen as much for their cheapness as any other criteria) so far into the shade that we would probably be griping about their crapness for the next 4 weeks. Or so we thought.

Because almost from the moment we arrived, I've been questionning whether it was worth all the extra cash. Sure, the views are great. But what do views matter when there is a litany of disaster strewn across the interior?

It started when we first arrived at the door to our room, fully laden with our bags because we were trying to avoid the insane tipping system that sees anybody getting cash out of you, however crap their service. But we couldn't get into the room, because neither of our electronic key cards worked. A trek down to the lobby later, and we could get in. And yes, the view is great, if you discount the enormous Fallsview Casino that splits the two falls, and the car park that partially blocks the view of the Canadian falls. Or the crane that is out to the side, by the corner window, with it's cabin just a floor below ours. It is awe inspiring, and we were suitably gobsmacked. Had that been the only problem, we would have considered our stay enjoyable, in spite of the need to divide the Crabtree and Evelyn toiletries between us, as they hadn't given enough for 2 people to use. But it didn't stop there.

After a trip to the Falls, and many photographs for L, we came back to the room, planning to treat ourselves to room service. This is, after all, an early birthday treat for me, and the only thing that would have completed it more than lazing about in luxury having room service (i.e., having minions wait on my every command) would have been a massage. But getting back into the room once again proved problematic. Because my key still didn't work. Luckily, L's did, and we were in, on the bed, and ordering from the children's menu in no time. When the food arrived, it looked great. L's lasagna was a gooey concoction of cheese, tomato and pasta, just as all good lasagna should be. Mine was a couple of chicken drumsticks with vegetables. The veg was delicious, cooked well and not dripping in oil, unlike many other meals we'd sampled to date. I bit into the chicken, crispy coating flying off the drumstick (I'd thrown caution - and etiquette - to the winds and was eating with my hands by this stage). But something wasn't quite right here. It was too hard to get through the bite. A look at the drumstick revealed why. There was blood oozing along the bone. I've never actually seem chicken that has been cooked do this before. It was stomach churningly vile.

So of course, I called up and got them to bring me a replacement meal. It took a while, as well. Someone came to take the plate away, first, clearly not believing me without seeing for themselves. By the time the new meal came, it was on towards ten o'clock. If I hadn't been starting to feel queasy from the rare chicken, I would have been ravenous, gnawing my own arm. As it was, I was a little wary of the replacement meal and immediately cut into the drumstick, not wanting a repeat. And it was almost as bad, the meat a horrible dark colour that suggested that it hadn't been properly prepared before cooking. So I called them up again to complain. "So you want it well done then?" asked the person on the other end of the phone. Now, as far as I am aware, you don't ever ask how you want your chicken cooked. There is no medium rare for chicken. There is only cooked, or uncooked. And this was clearly the latter. So I just got my money back, a strange hybrid of US and Canadian money that came with an apology and a promise to "tell the cooks". Because clearly, they hadn't been informed that they sent up a chicken that had only just left the coop the last time. By this stage, I was considering myself lucky to not be camped out by the toilet bowl, because I was feeling decidedly unwell.

So I did what seemed reasonable for someone feeling a bit sick. I went to bed and slept the sleep of the exhausted. After all, I had spent the day before reminding L that when she's driving, it's a good idea not to wander across the road, not to steer where you turn your head, and that the Americans drive on what is quite clearly the wrong side of the road. I had also been trying to answer questions that there was no way I could have known the answer to: how does the US/Canada border crossing work? where do I pay the toll? And, as you might expect, I was in a beautiful queen size bed, the perfect amount of support, the perfect pillow configuration. Sleep-wise, it was great. It was only when I woke up again and stepped into the shower that the next screw up hit me.

The shower should have been awesome. It should have made up for any number of pathetic showers along the way. It should have delivered on the border guard's assertion that only the best things are to be found in Canada. But it didn't. Because the thermostatic mixer thing was loose. Because gravity pushing things down. Because the hot setting was at the top of the dial. Because I didn't like being scalded whilst in the shower. Funny, that last one. I have a strange dislike for the sense that my skin is about to leave my body. Probably a similar feeling to what the chicken had as I bit into it's leg. But either way, I've come out of the bathroom and to my computer, still with something of a stomach ache, all steamed up because there's no exhaust in the bathroom either, to sit on my ratty desk chair (like something that the Thistle hotels I was working on in the UK would have discarded long ago as being too worn out, given that you can actually see the padding on the seat), with the TV providing a fuzzy picture reminiscent of the reception you get with the old bunny-ears style aerials, and turned to my blog to work up the kind of righteous indignation I can never manage in person. Because although I plan to go downstairs and complain, and demand to know what they're going to do with me, I'm certain that I will be ineffectual. And that's not right. Because this is supposed to be a treat, staying here. It's supposed to be a bit special. And so far, it's been special for all the wrong reasons.

Washington Burning

I've been in the US for almost a week now, and I've never seen such extremes. The rich and poor are pretty sharply divided here, and it's not by geography. If nothing else, it's the levels of bitterness that seem to mark them out. And as a white woman travelling here, I seem to come in for my share of the bitterness. Because the poor are predominantly black or Latino. In the course of three days in Washington, I have been abused because I didn't respond to being called "white girl" by someone in a wheel chair who, I realised a few seconds too late, was asking me to open the door. I might have felt a whole lot worse about that had I not been laden with around 30kg of bags at the time, and barely able to walk myself. The other time was when L and I were walking through the apparently safe, upper class streets of Foggy Bottom, where we were yelled at across the street by a down and out drunk, who screamed that we were "white hos".

It's not restricted to race, or even locals though. Wandering the paths of Arlington Cemetery, a beautiful peaceful place the sheer scale of which is overwhelming, we came across a group of French teenagers on a school trip. I thought it was a strange place to take a school group, but as a way of getting across the nature of America's militarism, and the respect in which they hold the armed forces here, I guess there are few better places to go than a monument to the fallen that not only overlooks the national capital (not to mention the Capitol), but is within the grounds of a vanquished foe of the Union from the civil war. some of the French boys had outpaced their teachers and, when they didn't get a response to their question (in French) asking if we understood them, proceeded to follow us along the path with the continuous stream of filthy gutter slang that would have had their mothers washing their mouths out with soap, if not cuffing them across the back of the head. Because we do understand French, we just didn't realise they were talking to us when they asked.

But there you have Washington in summary; beautiful monuments and stunning settings, with the constant background hum that something isn't quite as full of pomp and circumstance as the politicians and public servants would like to believe. I guess it's like Canberra, but on a grander scale. And so are the social problems. Because everything in America is bigger than it is anywhere else, it stands to reason that the social and racial divides should be no different.

Of course

It had to happen, really. And the timing is probably better than it ought to have been. The inevitable on-the-road cold has struck, laying me low at a point when I'm not doing the driving, thankfully, but annoyingly, right when I have to lug my ridiculously heavy bags to and from buses, since getting around on the cheap has its cost in physical pain.

But either way, I'm on the road, and have loved my road trip to date. Boston was gorgeous, even with the unseasonably cold weather of the second day, when we were in coats, scarves, and longing for hats. Just to contrast, today's arrival in Philadelphia was warm and temporarily sunny. We got to the hostel just in time to avoid a spectacular thunder storm, though, and too late to get into any of the sights. So we snuck around outside, checking out the Liberty Bell (I'm still tempted to call it the Taco Bell), and a few buildings. Now I'm staving off the cold with whatever drugs I had to hand - nothing terribly efficient, it has to be said - and sharing the love with the other people in what has to be the biggest hostel dorm in history - 28 beds, thankfully only half of them occupied. I can see I'm going to be popular here in a few days...

The Final Word

It's a grey Sunday in London, so it seems appropriate to get back onto my blog for one last time before moving on to greener pastures - well, lighter, brighter, warmer, with any luck. Because d-day - departure day, that is - looms large on the horizon, moving ever closer, and suddenly, I find that I only have a couple of days left as a Londoner. And it's a very strange feeling, let me tell you. I am currently homeless, unemployed, and whittling my possessions down to the smallest number I can bear. Somehow, I think I wouldn't survive as one of those people who are perpetually on the road, but by the standards of a pack rat like myself, the last three and a half years has been condensed to a scarily small pile of possessions.

The goodbyes have all been said, and I'm beginning to realise just how much I'm going to miss certain people when I'm no longer in the same country, continent, hemisphere. Because as much as I might bemoan the lack of possessions at the moment, the things that I'm also whittling down, like friends, acquaintances and flatmates, are the things that have meant the most.

I know. I don't normally go in for the touchy feely stuff. In fact, I normally run from it at a speed that people who have seen me exercise are astonished by. My hockey career could have been very different had I been able to put on such a turn of speed on the pitch (and if I had skills, but hey, that doesn't make such a nice image, does it...). But here I am, feeling the urge to get all gushy. Make the most of it, these moments don't come around too often, and I still can't manage to do it with any degree of sincerity and without resorting to cliches.

There are people I won't miss. The friend of a friend who came around this afternoon to buy my sewing machine, and spewed phoney declarations of a friendship we never had for the entire time she was here. The person who I saw for what we both knew would be the last time a couple of weeks back, who promptly went home after that night's drinks and unfriended me on Facebook. I also won't be missing London's air quality, the pavement pizzas to be found after pretty much every Saturday night, the men who turn all of the city into their own personal lavatory. I won't be coming back any time soon because of the lure of those things.

But there are people that I am going to miss, because they bring their own unique quality to a friendship. Jones, with her ability to bring bowel movements into pretty much any conversation. Chris, and her involved love life, the twists and turns of which are better than any novel yet published. L, the most motherly flatmate imaginable, with her tendency to voice every thought that enters her head, even if it's just a commentary on what she's doing at the time. C, sweet, giggly, and hilarious when tipsy. The core group of those who were out with me until 2am this morning, the chief causes of my husky voice when I eventually surfaced from a deep sleep today. They are the ones who have made living here, away from old friends and family, not only bearable, but enormously fun. And I will miss them. Drunken promises of catching up in Sydney for New Years Eve had better be followed through on...but just in case, I plan to annoy people on email until they come visit me, just to keep me quiet.

But that's the thing with leaving somewhere. My intentions are good, and so are those of the people staying behind. But the bittersweet truth is that, over time, there will undoubtedly be drifting apart. The number of people who keep in touch with will shrink. I think I know who will fall by the wayside, and who will last. But from here on in, the things that have come so easily while in London will require work. And I'm not known for my work ethic. So if you're one of the people I'm talking to, and you don't hear from me for a while, rest assured that I'm not ignoring you. I'm just distracted. I will get back to you at some point...just bear with me, that's all.

Meanwhile, off to America for me...Five weeks of Thelma and Louise style antics with L. Although hopefully without the murder or the messy ending. But I wouldn't mind if we ran into a Brad Pitt along the way...

A lot to answer for

I got very excited in New York over Christmas. There were many reasons for the excitement, but the one that made me stop in my tracks and walk a few steps back to check out a poster on a billboard was the discovery that the writers of The Nanny Diaries have finally gotten around to producing a sequel. This may be news to some - those in the UK, certainly, where it's not destined to land on shelves for another month or so - but to quite a few, it will be no shock. It was out in New York, it was out in Australia, and it made the journey back from Melbourne safely stowed in L's luggage until it was pounced on by me and read in a flash.

It's taken me a little while to digest what I read there. The book was lacking several things, not least of which was the fantastic alliteration of the Harvard Hottie - now he has a name, somewhat disappointingly, and is extremely absent for a large chunk of the book. The years have rolled by faster in Nanny's New York than in the real world, though, and suddenly Nanny is jaded, nostalgic and approaching an early mid-life crisis.

Gone also is the biting but disturbing critique of the wealthy society families. It's not nearly as surprising now to discover the truth behind something Cherry told Ponyboy in The Outsiders a few decades ago: It's rough all over. We've been presented with the dilemma of the rich child who has everything they want except the love and attention of their parents often enough to have become desensitised to it. And if we wanted to know what happens when the children grow up and reach high school, well, we've had Gossip Girl to instruct us on the difficulties of their lives. The parties, the clothes, the dash to spend cash - it's all too familiar.

The difference is that Kraus and Mclaughlin set their novel just as it was all revealed as a sham. They hint at the outcome before the story even begins, with a quote about Bernie Madoff's relationship with his sons. The makings of something a little more serious than the usual chick lit romp are already in place - even if they just re-use the framework from The Nanny Diaries. But somehow, it all falls flat.

Maybe it was me. I've read a whole lot more books with pink covers featuring cartoons of impossibly thin but beautifully dressed girls. I've seen Gossip Girl, and the episodes focusing on what happens when one of the rich bastards gets caught out. But whatever it is, somehow, Nanny just comes across as a little spineless and whiny as she hangs out with her former school mates, swans around town getting paid and enormous amount of cash to do very little, it seems, and fails to stand up for those who deserve it. Nanny, the great defender of the unloved, the champion of the children, has gotten all growed up and lost something in her years living abroad with her world-saving husband.

Still, for any who haven't read it yet, don't take my word for it. Read the follow up to the book that is credited with lifting the lid on Upper East Side Manhattan. Take a peek into the sort of lifestyle we can only dream about. Then follow it up with lashings of Gossip Girl; because really, who doesn't wish that they at least had the option to reject that lifestyle?

Beware Pagans...

At last there is light. So much so that I’m tempted to put my sunglasses on when I’m at my desk for certain times of day. I’m at risk of being blinded. It has to be a health and safety issue. But I don’t really mind. Because, as long as I don’t venture outside, I can bask in the sun, stretching out my feet like a cat, and pretend that it’s almost summer, and I’m almost warm.

It looks like I’m not the only one with this kind of thinking. I’ve seen a few people tricked into wearing shorts, flippy skirts, bare legs and sandals. There’s a more sensible man leaning against a wall outside. It’s the end wall of a terrace, and he stand beneath a wall-mounted street light, head raised to the sun and looking like he’s about to indulge in a pagan ritual. He’s smart enough to do it whilst wearing a sheepskin jacket with a heavy beard to keep his face warm. Although now I think about it, judging by the amount of laundry he’s just picked up from the laundromat in his supermarket trolley, I’m wondering if that’s as much because he didn’t have enough clean clothes as anything else.

I do feel that I should brave the cold and offer him a warning though. The last man I saw leaning against that wall was facing the other way and searching for relief from things other than the cold. If the trickle he left running from the wall to the gutter was anything to go by, he wasn’t worshipping the sun. South London: workplace, temple and toilet, all rolled into one handy location. How convenient.

Waxing lyrical

It's enough to make a girl get homesick. Reading the Melbourne newspapers online, I stumbled across an ode to Melbourne's arcades and laneways. Sure, it's advertising. It's selling a product that is, in turn, selling the bars and shops that haunt the back alleys of the city - the hidden gems that make Melbourne a place that takes some knowing. But reading through the list and seeing so many old haunts and places that I always meant to get to but never have, as well as a few I'm not as familiar with, well, it made the yearnings to be back in the Garden State that little bit stronger.

You can read it for yourself. See if you find yourself drifting towards the allure of Koko Black (incidentally, for any non-Melburnians who stumble across this, you don't just go there to buy truffles and the like; the hot chocolates are also just as good...and in the Block Arcade there's a fantastic chocolate shop as well. Or there used to be. Please god let it still be there). They may have missed out other gems, some whose names I can't even remember (the bar on the old town square? Anyone? I know it's something-Below and was designed by Six Degrees...that it's a great place to grab a drink on a sunny day, propped up on a bar stool outside in the sun). There are places outside of the city grid just as well worth mentioning that are missed. The Belgian Beer Cafe Bluestone - whoever thought of putting a pub in the grounds of the Institute for the Blind? It's genius.

But there you have it. Homesickness in a very concise dosage. All the things that Melbourne has that aren't weather dependent, that make it one of my favourite cities, a place that you have to spend time in, to get to know, like the quirks of an old friend. I've got less than one hundred days left living in London now. In around 150, I will be back in my home town, pounding the pavements, wandering the streets, searching for a job. And I might just stop off in Degraves St on my way out of Flinders St Station.

With a note from my Mum

I've been guilty of a little blogging absenteeism lately, so I've indulged in a little hypochondria to try and explain away what basically amounts to a combination of laziness and a disturbing lack of things to say. Think of it as the kind of note you always wished your Mum would write that could act as a get out of school free card - better than the Monopoly version, that's for sure.

So that headache that's been lurking around for a month or two? Nothing to do with allergies or a failure to drink enough water. It's a brain tumour. An aneurysm. A stroke. The stomach ache you got from eating too much stuff that was bad for you? A sure sign of a stomach ulcer (actually, given my current coke intake, that one might be true). The pulled muscle in your side? Appendicitis. So, here's the note...

Dear Reader(s),

Please excuse Killi's prolonged absence from her blog, as she has been recovering from a no doubt fatal illness that can only be diagnosed by putting her symptoms into Google. The most likely diagnosis to date appears to be chronic repetitive stupidity.

Yours sincerely,

Killi's Mum (Lulu)

There you have it. Yet another example of why I should not be allowed near a computer when I am both tired and tending towards a migraine. Who says paracetamol/ibuprofen are safe drugs? I promise not to medicate and blog in the future. I also promise not to let it go so long that nobody knows about the bizarre running woman the other day...but I have to hold something back for tomorrow now, don't I?

Addendum

A horrifying thought has occurred to me. When we were leaving the pub and I was asked which way I was going, I told the one who brought the pretty that I was going whichever way I'd have company, figuring that everyone was headed to the same place. Except it turned out they weren't. "He's going to Vauxhall, that would be quicker for you, wouldn't it?" came the response from the Bringer.

What if, instead of the helpful getting-me-home-quicker response it seemed to be at the time, it was actually a response to a "get-me-away-from-the-crazy-woman" look from Pretty over my head, that I just didn't notice at the time as I rifled through my vast but strangely empty brain for an excuse to head to the Northern line? What if the look that I thought was "nice to meet you" as we waved goodbye to everyone was, in actual fact, "thank god she's gone with him?"

And now we know it's a serious crush. Because the insecurity has kicked at full force in record time. Dammit. Insanity and crushes, who knew they went together so well? Oh yeah, that's right. Everyone knows. That's where the romantic comedy was born.

Uh Oh

I seem to have developed a dilemma that I'm kind of forced by circumstances to write out here. See, I made the mistake of doing Friday night drinks after work. Normally, not a problem there. In fact, quite the reverse. It's always a giggle to stand around in a pub and take my time over pints while the guys entertain me with whatever comes into their heads to talk about.



It seemed to be heading that way tonight. The guys were in rare form, discussing far ranging subjects that touched on a whole load of my interests. And then it happened. The friend of one of the guys turned up and I found myself tumbling headlong into the biggest crush I've had in a long time. The timing is a little odd, given that L woke me up during the week to tell me that she'd seen the last of my enormous crushes at the tennis in Melbourne. Maybe that set the scene. But whatever the cause, I spent most of the time trying to subtly engage him in conversation - he came in when I was about a pint down after a lunch of healthy, but definitely not stomach lining soup, so I was up for the chatty approach - but at the same time hoping that none of the guys caught onto the fact that I was head over heels with the Irishman in the white t-shirt.



I was thinking for a bit there that I didn't know much about him and, in some respects, I still don't. But at the same time, it doesn't matter. I know that he likes plays, and movies, that he's from Belfast and close to his family. He's tall and good looking and has an accent that means he says things like "fill-um" when he means film. He lives not too far from me, loves a good pub, and has been to Australia some time in the not too distant past. He ventures to Camden and doesn't like the "Primrose Hill set". He doesn't know the meaning of the word insipid, but he likes the sound of it. He didn't seem to be against engaging me in conversation, but at the same time spoke to pretty much everyone there. And he had something about him that made me look as soon as he walked in the door.



So now I will spend days thinking about him, wondering if I should say something to the guy from work whose mate he is. Thinking I should have taken the detour to walk with them to the Northern line tube instead of going with the much closer and generally more practical Victoria line and the less interesting conversational stylings of the one who was going that way. And I'll spend tonight longing for someone to be close enough for me to sit down and analyse the night, to tell me that of course he likes me - regardless of their real opinion. But instead, I'm here all but alone tonight, still slightly tipsy from beer, with a flatmate locked away in her room skyping her boyfriend on the other side of the world, and another flatmate home in Australia and incommunicado for the moment, completely unaware of my revery. So I'm blogging, and hoping that somewhere, someway, I'll get to know more about him, get to talk to him again. But figuring that it's never going to happen, because that's the way my crushes run.

Sprung

It has long been accepted that the seasons influence moods, sanity, general well being. Generally, summer makes us happy and winter makes us miserable. There's a reason that Scandinavian countries have high suicide rates and Russia has a history of producing long and depressing literature. But today brought out a new aspect of seasonal affected disorder, something I'd witnessed before but never really traced to something specific. Until this morning, that is.

I was, as usual for anything happening before lunchtime, running late for work this morning. I was fairly motoring along as I walked to the tube, but, as I powered up the hill, my shortness of 0f breath meaning I had my own personal cloud surrounding my head thanks to the cold, I saw something that added an extra bounce to the hurried semi-trot my pencil skirt was forcing me into. About halfway up the hill, in the garden of a big Georgian white house straight out of a fairytale, a magnolia tree has gone mad. Just so we're clear here, winter is very much still with us. Last week, there was snow and ice that only disappeared with what seemed at the time for anyone caught in it to be torrential rain. But since the snowfall of last Wednesday (which brought about an official apology from the weather forecasters, in a first ever admission of all-round crapness that wasn't nearly comprehensive enough), the weather has felt decidedly mild. Gone is the run of sub-zero temperatures. In it's place, a steady flow of comparatively mild 6's, with occasional sunshine breaking up the miserable rain and fog. The mildness of last Sunday in particular has had an effect on the poor magnolia. It's been deluded into thinking that spring is on it's way and has begun to sprout buds.

This tree has led me astray before, so I'm trying not to get carried away here. I remember last year, noticing that there were actual leaves on the tree just days before the heaviest snowfalls to hit London in almost twenty years. It is surely the most optimistic of trees, running far ahead of its neighbours in it's rush for winter to be behind it. But I couldn't help but smile a little at the thought that, sometime in the not too distant future, spring will come. And with it will end the harshest, coldest and last of my northern hemisphere winters. I can hardly wait.

But neither, it seemed, could a couple of other people out and about today. Because, in the space of about ten minutes this afternoon, I looked from my window at work to see two more people who have clearly emerged from the depths of winter without their sanity. The first was a woman, middle aged and seemingly ordinary until you noticed that her lower half was covered by a skirt. And nothing more. She was clearly not wearing stockings. Nor was she wearing boots - footwear of choice for the sane pretty much every day so far this year - or even closed in shoes. She had summery sandals on her feet instead. And they weren't even blue.

Closely following her, a man proved that weather-induced insanity is not gender specific. Sure, Britain, and England in particular, is known for the first hint of sun bringing out the sunbathers in the parks; topless men and bikini clad women risk frostbite annually on days when I'm still debating the need for my winter woollies. But this guy? The first of the year to be exposing skin whilst sober, surely. He was wearing shorts and thongs or, for those non-Aussies who are slightly disturbed by the thought of a man walking down the street in a thong, flip-flops. He wasn't out for a run. He wasn't just popping to the shops. He was headed somewhere specific, I don't know where. But I didn't see him come back, so I'm guessing the men in the white coats caught up with him eventually and took him somewhere warm. If it's toasty enough, it's almost tempting to copy him, to be honest. But no, I'm holding out for the weekend. Apparently, it's going to reach a whole 8 degrees. Heatwave conditions. I'm not sure how I'll cope...

Top Quality

I've been reading chick lit again. Devouring it, in fact, ever since I got back from New York. The latest conquest is the I Heart... series by Lindsey Kelk. It's thrown up a couple of questions though. Like how you can stick a disclaimer at the front of a book claiming no real or intended resemblance to any real person, then proceed to rip off reality. Sure, sounds harsh, but let me explain why I'm saying this.

The basic premise of the first book in the series is that Angela Clark, a Brit, runs away to New York when she finds her fiance cheating on her. So far, so chick lit. You just know there's going to be romance, new friends, smiles, tears and general dramas waiting for her as she gets her life together in a new city. The catch is, for me, that her first friend is a girl called Jenny Lopez. There are a load of references to the fact that she's not "that" Jenny Lopez, but still. Then she hooks up with a guy called Tyler Moore. Just like Mary Tyler Moore, but without the Mary. So naming characters is clearly not the author's strong point. The next character with a full name is Alex Reid. Hmm, I'm thinking this might have been written around about the time that Katie Price split from Peter Andre. Sensing some topical naming going on. What was she doing, sitting with a gossip mag on her lap, and an old TV show on the box while she was writing? And given the James-Blake combination in the second book of the series, well, anyone for tennis?

But whatever. What really got to me, though, was her description of Alex's 'hipster' New York born and bred band, Stills. See, this one is also remarkably close to reality. There really is a New York based band called The Stills who, just like the band in the book, had been together for nine years when it was written and met in art school. So she dropped the "The" and stuck her incarnation of the then-current squeeze of a celebrity in the front of the band instead of the real life Canadian who is really their lead singer. Wow, that makes it all totally original, I guess.

See, I don't read these books for their original plotting; there is something comforting about knowing that the girl's life is going to get totally screwed up but, by the end of the 300-odd pages (because they're almost always about 300 pages long) she will have gotten it together, whether 'it' is her love life, her career, her friends, her family, or some combination of the above. It's nice to see someone who, other than their ability to both afford and fit into designer clothes whilst eating hearty meals (because, after all, size 12 involves having an arse of monstrous proportions in that world, right?), could, theoretically, be you. If the world was a little more perfect. But come on folks. You can have a genre specific novel without ripping off EVERYTHING from somewhere else. Use a little ingenuity, please. Otherwise those of us who enjoy reading books with caricatures of beautiful women carrying loads of shopping on the covers will never be able to raise our heads on the tube for fear of meeting the eyes of anyone else in the carriage. The judgement attached to the knowledge that there is no defence for our reading choices will chatter us forever and reading chick lit, like overindulging on chocolate, will become a guilty pleasure to be hidden. And those of us who attempt to write anything at all will turn green - not necessarily with envy, more along the lines what happens when the Incredible Hulk gets angry - at the thought of what HAS been published, while knowing our own manuscripts would never make it out of the slush pile.

So, in a plea to all the people who write and publish these books, some quality control, please. I know, they sell like hot cakes. But has the publishing world totally sold it's soul? Has editorial surrendered control of the presses to the marketing department? And can the next I Heart book hurry up and come out? Because I want to know how Angela's life is going to fall apart in Paris, and just how many hot men she is going to hook while dressing herself in designer clothes on a freelance writer's salary. And my own celeb-inspired novel? Well, as soon as I decide which Olsen twin to base a character on, it'll be in the mail to the nearest publisher.