In my home town

At the risk of seeming self centred (hello, I've been blogging about my life for almost five years now, and still stamp my foot a little when I realise just how few people have come back more than once in that time. What, my ramblings aren't worthy? But I digress. Hmm, perhaps that's the problem?), I'm about to blog my personal life again. Yes, that's right, folks, welcome to another world of the completely insecure embarking on a dating exercise.

The boy I've now seen twice - let's dub him the Talker, for his ability to talk the leg off a table - has suggested meeting up this weekend. But he hasn't suggested any locations, obviously assuming that with my many years living in Melbourne I'll be able to suggest somewhere suitable. I knew it was a mistake to come across all "oh yeah, you have to try this place" on the first date. So I've just spent almost an hour googling ideas. And you know what I've come up with? A sleazy, vile pool hall; ten pin bowling. Then I hit the joys of suburb-based streets; Brunswick St, Fitzroy; Fitzroy St, St Kilda. Really? I lived in this city for most of my life, and that's the best I can come up with as suggestions for what to do? Where are the cosy venues with great food and cheap drinks? Where is the quirky back-alley basement bar? Because the truth is, when planning a night out in my home town, I'm a dead loss.

Meanwhile, you guessed it, it's coming to the end of semester. I'm in full procrastination mode. And that might be why I'm planning on doing a whole lot of research into suitable date venues over the next few days. Procrastination task at the ready? Students, stop your engines...

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...

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.

Ladies who lunch

While I was putting together my cheese and toast sandwich today, I was suddenly hit by a memory. It was a hit, not a gentle reminder or anything so subtle. It was the cheese that did it. Or rather, the foil that the cheese was wrapped in. But in order to understand why foil-wrapped cheese could trigger a moment of vivid recall, I need to start way back in September, during my trip back to Melbourne for a few days.

It was Mum's birthday. I was jet lagged out of my mind, feeling the effects of a horrendous plane trip that had ended at midnight the night before. The flight was awful, not least because somewhere between Singapore and Sydney, or Sydney and Melbourne - I still can't narrow it any further than that - I lost not only the denim jacket that I'd been carrying, but also the scarf that was with it. Beyond that, there were delays, annoying people and a malfunctioning entertainment system. Another day on Qantas, essentially. But I digress.

The jet lag had left me a little silly by the time in the afternoon that we made it to Nana's house for the hello visit. After the usual welcome back conversations ('When will you be back for good?' 'Have you seen Anabelle yet?' 'When do you leave?' 'Have you got a boyfriend yet?' 'You should go on Farmer Wants a Wife.' 'I got served by a lovely boy in the supermarket. So helpful, he was. I thought of you. You should get his number.'), talk shifted to the dinner plans for the night. We were off to the Cross Keys, a local pub that used to have a somewhat seedy reputation but now does a half decent meal and, most importantly, has discount vouchers on the back of supermarket dockets. The gist seemed to be that Nana was all prepared for the dinner already.

It seems that the meal sizes at the Cross Keys aren't to Nana's liking, though. Too big, apparently.

"They give you two enormous pieces of fish," she told me, gesturing with her hands. She could have been the fisherman describing the one that got away, with a piece of fish as large as the one she demonstrated.

"One that size is too much." I agree with her. One piece of fish that large would see me through a week. But Nana, ever-resourceful and always known for such behaviour, went to her handbag and showed us her solution; she had a freezer bag and a couple of pieces of paper towel already stashed, ready and waiting to receive the extra piece of fish and as many chips as she didn't want to eat. She's always been known for loading up on dinner rolls from the table, but it seems she's been picking up bad habits from her friends in the day club. I feel sorry for the bus driver on their outings, a load of senior citizens coming back from some destination, each with a piece of battered fish concealed in a wedge of paper napkins in her handbag. The stench must be mind-numbing by the end of a two hour trip.

"The only trouble," she told me, "is that it all goes a bit pappy by the next day. After ***'s birthday the other week, it was a soggy mess when I pulled it out of the fridge."

You have to remember, I was jet lagged. I was feeling silly, and I was still adjusting to having to conceal my giggles. And I'm always a little bit of a smart arse - er, always helpful. So I offered a suggestion, a hint.

"You should take some foil, keep it crisp."

Her eyes light up like the flashers on a winning pokie machine. It's all she can do to keep from running to the kitchen and stuffing the roll of foil into her bag there and then. She manages to contain her excitement, somehow, and the rest of the visit goes off without a hitch. ('You should be saving.' 'You need to come back and settle down.' 'About as welcome as a red-headed step-child.')

Later that night, clustered around the family dinner table, I heard a rustling from the far end of the table, and suppressed giggles from the cousins and their partners lined up opposite me.

"Was that foil?" demanded the newest addition to the family group, the girlfriend of a cousin. She sounded incredulous. I looked down the length of the table and there sat Nana, forcing the zip of her handbag closed over a clearly bulging foil-wrapped parcel. She looked up at me and beamed. I don't think I've ever made her as happy before in my entire life.

When I saw her again a couple of days later, she was still beaming.

"That was a lovely bit of fish I got from the Cross Keys. It stayed all crispy. I'll have to tell Mary to keep a bit of foil in her bag."

Dark days ahead

Today was the first of the grey days for the season - or the first that I've seen, anyway. It really brought home that winter is just around the corner. And, even knowing that it will be my last northern hemisphere winter, I'm not sure how I'll handle it. Because the thought of darkness before 4 in the afternoon is perhaps one of the more miserable thoughts that today brought into my head.

Of course, there are benefits to winter. There is no other season so friendly to the chubby girl, as everyone else bundles up in layers of clothing that go some way to evening out the imbalances in stature. There are the boots, coats, scarves and hats, at least one item of which I never felt the necessity for wearing until I got over here. In fact, I remember a few years where I didn't even own a winter coat. I went an entire winter at school without even owning a jumper to wear with my uniform (you think Melbourne doesn't get cold? Try getting through a Melbourne winter wearing only the thinnest of see-through lemon yellow shirts, a white t-shirt, a school blazer and skirt. It was even worse because that was the year it was cool to wear knee-hi socks instead of the official baby-poo brown tights). I could never manage that here. It's hard enough to make it through summer without a jumper.

But whatever else living here has done for me, I now have a profound appreciation for Melbourne's weather. Often maligned by other Australians because of the supposed grey and rain, I never had as much of a problem with it as interstaters did. Like many Melburnians, I secretly enjoyed the changing of the seasons; perhaps it wasn't necessary to go through quite so many changes in a single day, but the definition of the seasons and the separate activities and wardrobes that went with them always had an appeal. Here in London, there is less definition. What there is can be found in the different light levels rather than in the weather. Yes, it gets colder in winter, but it's such a gradual drift from the "warmth" of summer that it's hard to tell where one season ends and another begins. It's only the shortening of the days that brings home just how late in the year it is.

Next week sees the end of daylight savings, bringing with it darkness before 6. It won't be long before I'm leaving work in the dark. On Fridays. When I finish at 4:30. How people survive in places with almost continual darkness around Christmas I can't even begin to fathom. I'm sure I'm still recovering from depression after spending a week in the semi-darkness of Finland last Christmas. So roll on winter, do you worst. Then surrender to the sun and bring on the summer. Please.