Free at last from the threat of visa problems...almost

Finally, the British government has decided to say I'm allowed a visa. All that's left is to wait for the entry clearance stamp/sticker to appear in my passport, and to not be turned back at the border. Which means that I feel free to pass some comments on the process so far, hopefully in a certain amount of anonymity since I'm still in Melbourne as I write this, and my passport is at the visa section of the British consulate in Canberra.

There have been many people who were surprised to find that Australians need visas to live and work in the UK. It's a fair enough question, really, when you think about it. I've been in the system since mid-February getting this far, and still have up to 2 weeks to go, assuming everything goes to plan that is. All to get into the UK legally. When, if you want to be pedantic about it, Australians should really have more right to enter than the EU citizens who are free to come and go as they please. Afterall, Australia and Britain share the same queen. Given that we have the same head of state, until such time as either country wakes up to the fact that the monarch is outdated - something far more likely to happen in Britain than Australia, as soon as the Brits find someone else to fill the gossip magazines as well and the Windsors do - surely we should be able to have equal rights within countries which are also subjects of the Queen? Logic would suggest it. Because as it stands, if I want to go and work for my ultimate head of state, not only do I have to pass the standard security and background checks that British employees would be subject to, but I would also have to arrange a visa, with every likelihood that I would be refused. Hmm, republicans take note.

Otherwise, the process is no doubt much smoother when there are not thousands on panicked people thinking that new rules will make it harder for them to get their visas dumping applications in at once. I'm fairly certain that it would normally take far less than 12 weeks to process the first stage of the application. I do, however, have to question the point of a two stage process - especially when it's really a three stage process, by the time you factor in the lovely part where they treat you like a terrorist/criminal, and take both fingerprints and a mugshot, which is aparently compared to the passport photo you are required to supply with your application (note for visa people: compare the passport photo on the application with the photo IN THE PASSPORT!!! Given that it's acceptable to prove who you are when they fingerprint you...). Why can they not do both stages at once? Or at least take the applications for both at the same time? Admittedly, this was kind of an option for me, but for the fact that it would have left me in the UK, unable to work legally, for 16 weeks or more while they pulled their finger out. Instead, I've had to fly home, change my flight back to the UK at great expense, and live off my parents for 2 months. As fun as it might be, there are limits. My personal limit for sharing a bathroom with my brother now is, apparently, about the 1 month mark before I start to crack about the puddles on the floor, the fact that towels are constantly sopping wet, and tripping over the shoes left in the middle of the room - not to mention that he uses the entire bench space. I am looking forward to getting back to London and starting the search for a new flat. Not that I don't have a room to go back to...In spite of only being in London for around 2 months in total so far this year, I have been paying the exorbitant rents for the entire period I've been undergoing this torture.

Oh well. At least the end is almost in sight. Hopefully. Assuming they got my application. Because, in true bureaucratic style, I have no means to check that it was received. I may have sent it registered post, but the only way I'll know that it wasn't received is if I don't get it back within the predicted 15 working days. By which time I will be almost ready to leave again. Given the way my luck was running for a while there, I'm not making any plans for the immediate future, just yet.

The Third Ring

I'm quickly coming to understand how limbo could be considered one of the rings of hell, how it could be considered a punishment almost worse than hell itself. I seem to remember that, depending on the period in history, limbo - or rather, pergatory - has been used as incentive to get yourself to heaven. Right now, I'd consider hell a fair alternative as well. At least you'd know where you were, and where you were going to be for the time to come. You could prepare yourself. In limbo, there is no planning. Things can go either way. The torture is exquisite. Just ask anyone waiting for a verdict on a visa application. Waiting for 9 weeks, with the last 4 of the process being told to expect a verdict within another week.

Yes, that's right...it's now 9 weeks since I heard from my immigration representative that my visa application hd been submitted. That was a little bit of a surprise to me, I must admit, since as far as I was concerned it had all been completed about a week before when they had all the information they needed and £750 of my hard earned into their hot little bank account. Turns out I was a little mistaken. Seems I was a little mistaken also when I assumed that I would hear within 8 weeks, even allowing for a bit of an error in the estimated 6 week prediction. See, right now, the geniuses at Borders and Immigration seem to be getting through a days worth of applications every week. Makes you wonder; are they terminally slow, or are there that many applications? In the latter case, if there are that many, how many are being approved? And how closely are they studying them? Because I want a verdict, and I want it three weeks ago.

Meanwhile, I'm here in limbo, almost a stateless citizen. I'm in Australia once more, yes. I'm back living with my parents and working on a laptop doing exactly the same job I was doing in London. In many ways, it's almost like I never left here. But I can't make any plans for the future. I don't know where I will be. I don't even know if I'll be able to make use of the return leg of my plane ticket, or if I'll need to either cancel it or change the date. I don't know anything. If I get a yes, I'll have to dash up to Canberra at some point to finalise details. But I don't know when that will be. My mother wants to take some time off work while I'm here to catch up properly. She's asking me which week is best for me. I have no answer for her, because I don't know when things are happening, if they are at all. It's no way to live a life. Actually, it's less like living than like being in that film, Groundhog Day. I live the same day over and over again with minor variations. And always the response from my immigration agent is the same: You should have a verdict within a week. I won't be betting on it just yet though.

Waiting for divine inspiration

It's always amazed me the lengths I will go to when I want to avoid something. And this is me talking about myself. Right now, I'm avoiding work - nothing unusual there, really. I tend to do it mostly when it can't be avoided and right now, it's easily avoided, as long as I make the deadlines. They're looming ever larger on the horizon though. It's just I'm struggling to get myself motivated. But strangely enough, I find that I'm motivated enough when it comes to other projects. Like designing and making a dress to wear to a formal dinner next weekend. Like writing a screen play (I have around 45 minutes of actual performance written, for anyone who's interested. It's fascinating. Or at least it is while I've got something else I should be doing). Like looking into learning computer rendering so I can make the movie of my screenplay without ever having to sell it. Finding software to get the screenplay in the correct format should I decide to sell it afterall. Finding an agent to send it to once it's in the correct format.

It seems that ever time I sit down at the work computer, a stroke of brilliance comes along to do with something else, and I find myself obliged to at least write it down, before it disappears. Then I need to develop the idea a little along certain lines. I need to make it clear to myself for future reference that Hannah and Luke argue about Luke leaving school. I need to create the setting for Becca to be a complete bitch to Luke. I need to explain why the Watcher doesn't have a name, as far as Josie knows. I need to establish Rueban as the old man who will mould the hero. I need to create the overwhelming sense of terror at the thought that the government can make anybody disappear for no apparent reason, that they have agents everywhere you go, and that nobody will lift a finger to help you.

And before I know it, 5 hours have passed, even though I sat down to make a note for 15 minutes or so, just while I had lunch, or dinner. I was going to make up the time later, tomorrow, on the weekend, but it never seems to get caught up. Why? When I'm in the process of locking myself into this work for longer, when I've been reasonably content in my job, by my usual standards, why can I not focus? Is it because, for the moment at least, I'm working amidst all the distractions of home? It's infuriating, really, that I have neither enough hours in the day, nor enough attention span, to get through both sets of tasks the fun stuff as well as the serious-pay-the-bills stuff. Because I know that the instant anything was to happen that made the fun, distracting stuff more like actual work, I'd find myself distracted from that too. Why is it that, as much as I love something, as soon as it becomes work, it becomes a drag?

And in even bigger questions relating to my state of mental health at the moment, is there any cure for coca cola addiction? Please forward all suggestions before my work-life balance is skewed along the lines of I'll-do-anything-as-long-as-there's-a-coke-machine-handy.

A little perspective please

The thing about being an Australian in Ireland is that it throws your country's heritage into rather harsh perspective - and by heritage, I should clarify that I'm talking about my personal heritage, not that of the country as a whole; I know the land was around and inhabited long before my ancestors even thought of setting foot there, but it's harder to grasp that heritage than it is for me to keep track of my own. To all intents and purposes, Australia as a country as has been around for little - very little - over a century. Ireland, on the other hand, had already been conquered and freed more times than I care to think about before the English knew the great south land existed.

A short walk from Killarney, where I'm based at the moment, are places that it's hard to believe, from my limited perspective, how old they are, buildings of so little note that often they have been left to moulder in some farmer's paddock with the government paying little of no attention to them - my theory is because there are so many. The fields are littered with ruins and must make life rather hard for the farmers. As near as I can tell, there are no laws or obligations on the farmers to keep them up. The only thing that stops some of them from being destroyed entirely is the combination expense it wuld occassion to move the pile of rubble and the superstitions that have arisen over the years that some of these piles are relics of the time when the faerie walked the irish soil.

Other times, the government has their attention called to a ruin and does it up in specatcular style. Ross Castle, for example, was bought by a consortium of americans who intended to turn it into a holiday resort. One of them had an attack of conscience, however, and somehow managed to get the irish government to pay for the repairs before he handed the ownership of the castle - and the 16,000 acres of land attached to it - back to the irish people. Now it forms one of the centrepieces of Killarney National Park. Tourists can now visit the 15th Century tower house and see what life would have been like for the chieftain and his family, as well as their servants - people who slept 15 to a room that these days would be comdemned as too poky, and turned into a study.

The information the guides can offer also makes you think. Life expectancy back in the 15th and 16th centuries for the Irish was not great. Estimates put it at 27-35. I scape into that age bracket now. Think of what those people would have lived through in that time, and again that perspective I was talking about before changes. Harsh life, wars, raids, famine, disease, child rearing...all within the time it wook me to grow up, get an education and barely get started on my life. Having seen the way they lived, however - and I'm talking about the priveleged upper classes here, as well - it makes you wonder what we're waiting for half the time. That and the knowledge that if I'd been born 500 years earlier, I'd probably be a grandmother! With the amount that they crammed into such a short time frame, the miracle is that they lived that long in the first place and didn't just drop dead of exhaustion, not to mention cold, given that they still hadnt discovered windows. Makes you kind of glad to be a twenty frist century kind of girl, really.

The times they are a changing

There's nothing like sitting all day every day in the common room of a hostelpretending to be working for finely tuning your ability to avoid something. In my personalcase, I'm trying to avoid the boredom of putting together a database for a London company.It might as well be a detailed spreadsheet of all the information on a series of projects being undertaken by the company. Apparently, my inside knowledge was indispensible for the task. I won't complain too hard though, as long as I get paid for it all. But in sitting here at my laptop, I have found that the urge to update my blog overtakes me far more often than it would otherwise do. Hence the regular posts again. It's just like when I was bored silly in a permissive office *sigh*.

But it has also given me a chance to observe the workings of the hostel a little more closely than I would otherwise. And I have to say, this one runs pretty well. There are the regulars who, like me, are pretty much living here. We recognise each other by sight if not by name, and have at least a nodding acquaintance and knowledge of each other's business. There is nowhere to hide your secret life in here, that is for sure. THen there are the blow-ins, the arrivals who turn up without a booking, but hoping for somewhere to spend the night. I'm not sure where they go when it's busy time and the place is booked out; I'm guessing to the somewhat less salubrious accommodation up the road. I don't envy them.

The bit that really gets me though is that most of these people need not turn up without a booking. The odern backpacker is a high tech being, travelling with mobile phones, mp3 players and often even laptops. Many have roaming broadband and need enver be out of touch with the world in any way, at any time. Somewhat different to the first time I went backpacking, over 7 years ago now, and didn't even have a phone card, that most modest of communication devices now. I'm as bad as the rest of them, I admit it, but I have to ask, where's the adventure gone, when you can travel solo, but really be bringing your friends along for the ride via the webcam hook up on your computer?

I'm not advocating going without all th modern accoutrements. I'd die without them on this trp, since I wouldn't be able to make any money and that 2 euros I had left to my name a couple of days ago would have been spent on a combination of packet soup, 2 minute noodles and tinned pasta - a most healthy and nutritious diet. Rather I'm wondering, where do you go to get away from the world? How do you truly escape now? Its not even a surprise to find someone with hundred - in some cases thousands - of dollars worth of equipment stashed in a humble backpack, but rather a surprise to find someone wihtout any high tech gizmos. My family and friends would be curiously worried if I dropped off the radar completely for a few days, let alone for the weeks, months, years that some people spend travelling. So, how do you do it, these days? I'm not sure, given social expectations. But I'm thinking of a trip to Bhutan or Nepal to test out the internet reception there - I figure they must be the last hold outs. The bigger question is, how naked and exposed would I feel without any means of contacting the outside world? And how the hell can I get to Nepal or Bhutan when I can't even manage to get into London and work right now?

The land of the unemployed

There are many things I've discovered since I became unofficially unemployed. One of them is that I can go out any night of the week here in Galway, and still find that I won't sleep past 9:30. OF course, that might have more to do with the fact that I'm staying in a dorm room in a hostel than anything else, but it's a point worth considering.

I have also discovered that drunken Irishmen lose the ability to speak. Or at least that I lose the ability to understand them when they get drunk. I struggle with some of the Irish accents at the best of times, although I am improving. Add alcohol to an already confusing accent, and the result is incomprehensible, but very very loud and quite amusing.

It hasn't taken until now to realise that people do stupid things while on holiday, but it has taken hours spent sitting around a hostel common room doing work of some form or other to discover just how stupid people can be. Take, for example, the american traveller who was sitting at reception yesterday being filled in by his friends on all the things that he'd gotten up to the night before. He had no memory of any of it. He couldn't recall the point where the bar was closing but he didn't want to leave; then there was the point where he was being wrestled to the ground by security, leaving a very large hole in the leg of his jeans, somehow. He struggled to remember taking off one of his shoes to hit security around the head with it in when seems to have been a fairly comical turn of events for everyone except the security guard involved. In fact, the only thing he did remember was waking up in the lock up where police had all but carried him so he could sleep off his alcohol induced coma.

In the land of the backpacker - ie, the unemployed or student - alcohol still reigns as king, it seems.

There is a side effect to this though, a slightly sinister bent to the party atmosphere of the town. Galway is beautiful, set on the banks of the fast-flowing river Corrib, with the wide sweep of Galway bay just a short walk away, and Lough Corrib a little further out. There are water and bogs ringing the town, one way or another. There are also constantly appearing missing posters on the lamp posts of the town. The first I saw was for a young woman, and the flyers disappeared before I really took anything in. Then there was a 20 year old man who vanished from somewhere in Galway city on Wednesday night. Then last week more posters appeared for another young man. You can't help but wonder, with a person a week going missing, what is happening in this town? It is a party town, with high alcohol consumption and every night of the week there are people who get paralytic and wander the streets. It seems that at least one of them will walk clean out of existence every week as well. But in the land of the unemployed and of students, it sometimes takes 3 days for people to compare notes and realise that they've gone. Like something out of a horror movie, nobody knows for sure what happens to these people. Apart from memories and grainy footage of them from CCTV, the only marks of their passing are the forlorn appeals for information left to weather on the lamp posts of Galway city.

Oh go on then

Of all the low down, dirty, pathetic things to do...the Home Office is in the process of changing the application process and the regulations governing visas. They appear to be unable to pass their own requirements for understanding of English, however, given that in order to apply for further Leave to Remain in the UK, applicants will have to return to their home country. Experts are suggesting that the glut of applications this is going to cause will take 4-5 months to clear. Given that most of the people affected will be switching from the restrictive Working Holiday Visa to the more open Highly Skilled Migrant visa, this is likely to mean a whole lot of antipodeans evacuating the UK in a hurry, or working illegally. I've taken the evacuate the country route myself, and am currently in the process of getting myself set up in Galway for at least part of th duration.

It was a bit of an adventure heading to Galway last week. Turns out that Ryanair exaggerate a little when they say that there's a regular bus service that will get you from Knock Airport to Galway. Turns out that there's one bus a day that does that direct from the airport; the alternative is a 15 minute shuttle bus ride in the wrong direction to a little town called Charlestown where, every 4 hours or so, there's a bus through to Galway. Except last Tuesday, the shuttle bus wasn't running and the poor women who staffed the information booth didn't know about that. Two hours and a missed Charlestown-Galway connection later, I was dropped by a taxi at the bus stop to wait in the freezing cold. Naturally, I looked for another alternative when I found that the wait was going to be around 3 hours. Being Ireland, I had a choice of pubs close at hand and somehow found myself in one of the cliched Irish pubs, complete with a collection of old men spinning yarns in indecipherable accents, and an open fire in the corner.

The old gents did their best to keep me entertained although, I have to admit, I think my entertainment was mostly incidental to their own teasing of each other. These are men who clearly spend most of their time propping up a bar and their banter is well practiced, from the man who dubbed his friend Nanky Doodle when it came out that the friend had spent some time in 'The States', to the man who distanced himself from them with the odd disapproving as he read his paper and drank his politehalf pint before leaving. They wouldn't let me sit with an empty glass, topping up my Coke at regular intervals as I disappeared to the ladies (too much Coke will do that...but somehow the glass had always miraculously re-filled itself when I got back).

The bus finally came, announced by the man who'd taken up station by the window as look out for me, only to be full. Luckily, there was another following it. Having left my London flat at 7am, I finally made it to my Galway hostel a around 5:30pm. Who knew it would be difficult?

There ar many good things about Galway. It's a fun place - although chaotic might be a better description of it for the past week, with Rag Week in full swing at the local university, and drunken students pretending to be raising money for charity scattered throughout the town in terrifying arrays of minimalist clothing given the cold. I'm not sure how the never had frostbite, but can only put it down to the huge amount of alcohol they consumed in the course of a night. Next weekend promises to be just as crazy as Tedfest rolls into town - and out again, heading for the island of Inis Mor. I'm a little disappointed though. I've only just found out about it, and look like I'll be missing out on the official aspects of the celebration of all things Father Ted. For anybody who never saw Dermott Morgan and Ardal O'Hanlon in action, Father Ted was – and I'm sorry for the pun here – an irreverant take on the lives of 3 priests living on the fictional Craggy Island. It was a hilairious show and has something of a cult following today. Tedfest is the tribute paid to the show and includes events like the 'Song for Europe' contest, poking fun at Eurovision, the 'Nuns and Preists 5-a-side' tournament, and the Toilet D*** comedy search, unearthing new comedic talent all over Ireland with the final in Galway this Wednesday, to mention just a few of the Father Ted-inspired events. And I don't have tickets. Nor do I have money to get tickets, given that I'm trying to find somewhere to live for the next couple of months and have to save for a potential last second flight home. But lucky for me, it seems that there are certain things that you can just turn up for. It might not be the same - it probably won't be, but it's better then nothing, I'm thinking. In the immorta words of Father Ted's housekeeper Mrs Doyle, oh go on then. Go on, go on, go on....go on.

So long, farewell...well, kind of.

I know, I know...I haven't posted in an eternity. I fell off the face of the internet and into an incredibly busy life for a while there, and then disaster struck - from all angles, all at once. That disaster knows how to plot the downfall of a cocky mere mortal who was beginning to think she had her life back on course at last. Meet a nice boy, head home for a nice Christmas and have a budget plan in place to let you not only pay the rent, but actually save money - the novelty! - as well as thinking that you've managed to esape the sickness that has knocked over everybody you have anything to do with, and you might as well be poking ou your tongue and pulling faces at fate, asking for something to go wrong. Well, it seems that the face I was pulling was particularly tempting.

One day, and the nice boy disappeared, the job was put on hold until I can produce a new visa, the budget was completely blown out of the water by the lack of work, and the nasty bug - the flu - struck. Actually, it wasn't even one day. It was all over the course of about 4 hours. Who knows why things happen that way, when circumstance conspire to see just how much you can handle without going round the bend or curling up in a little ball hoping that nothing else will happen (turns out, it will...while you're curled up on the couch, your boiler will go out and you'll have no hot water, and no heating).

So, after a week of brain wracking trying to find a solution, but really only discovering just how much Michael Buble and Snow Patrol get played during the day on Capital Radio, I'm bidding London a fond, and hopefully temporary, farewell. I'm off to Ireland for a while to keep myself amused while I wait out my visa. Sure, there will be visits back to my flat. The nostalgia won't be quite the same though. For starters, while I've been home, things have started to go right with the flat...the landlord finally seemed to grasp the concept that a leakng roof isn't ideal for anybody. Soon he'll realise that the leaking pipe in the downstairs hallway is also a problem, but not nearly as much as the lovely mushroom style fungus that is now growing underneath the drip on the wall and the carpet. Hmm...I wonder what Irish plumbing is like? Maybe there's a silver lining in every cloud after all...

Is there anyone alive out there???

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

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

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

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

Did you know...?

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


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


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


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


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

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


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


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

Discoveries of a year

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

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

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

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

Anniversaries, reunions, commiserations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be or not...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those Lazy hazy days

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

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

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

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

Changes

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

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

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

No words

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

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

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

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

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

Educating Killi

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

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

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

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

(Re)Vision

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

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

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

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

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

Never walk alone

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

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

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

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

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

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