Wanderlust, and Anarchy in the UK

Things have really slowed down here. Most of my friends are going back to their various countries of origin for good, and the general atmosphere is one of wrapping up. Which is fine, except that I have a tendency to develop wanderlust when I get too bored. It would happen at semi-regular intervals when I was living in Bathurst for uni and I would sit at my computer for hours, facebook stalking anyone on my friends list who happened to be overseas at the time or torturing myself by compiling a photo file of places I would rather be.

Of course London was always one of the places I dreamt of being, but I've been here so long now that I feel very much at home here. I oscillate wildly between seeking out a feeling of home wherever I am and running desperately away from it. When times are good I love being at home here. But at the moment I feel like my life is a constant battle against the drudgery of domesticity. It doesn't help that I recently picked up a second job, so now my weekends have been cut in half by yet more responsibility. When do I have the time to be young?!? Never, it would seem.

Not really. I'm just feeling sorry for myself. And the extra money will come in super handy when it comes time to leave the (relative) safety of London for the big wide world. Besides, it's good to know my shop girl skills are still razor sharp. And this time my dreams of getting up one morning and going to another country are palpably achievable. In fact I've got two weeks of holidays at the start of August, when I'll be going to Ireland, Wales and Scotland. Salvation is, both metaphorically and literally, just beyond the horizon.

In other news...

We need to talk about Rupert.

The collapse of News International's notorious tabloid News Of The World is far and away the most exciting news event to happen to Britain in quite some time, not least because finally freedom of the press is more than an ironic Murdoch family in-joke. 

Watching Murdoch Senior squirm alongside his son and recently deposed surrogate daughter was schadenfreude personified. The Murdochs are basically the media mafia, and Rupert's brutal and narrow minded opinions have permeated both British and (to a somewhat lesser extent) multitudinous international media outlets to a ludicrous extent. Given the power he wields over both Parliament and the police force I'm almost surprised he hasn't just wandered into Buckingham Palace and asked Lizzy to hand over the crown and be done with the whole charade.

It would be wonderful to think NOTW's demise could mark the start of a media revolution that would see the Murdoch's reign if not ended then at least scaled back. God knows it's warranted. NOTW and by association News International has been exposed as a cesspool of lies and moral decrepitude, where truly despicable and harmful things took place. And there are more than enough people who would gladly see the Murdoch's toppled. For one thing, the public have been gifted with a rare awareness of the inner workings of a corrupt regime, and the actions of a well placed, power hungry few have resulted in joblessness for many blameless employees.

Not to mention the governmental repercussions. To say David Cameron's position is precarious would be a massive understatement. In fact, Ladbrokes and Paddypower have 4/1 odds that Cameron will go.

But given that The Sun On Sunday is already a thing, chances are low that any real, lasting change will be affected within the British media. And the public protests have already taken on a farcical element (search #piegate if you don't believe me).

Still, I live in hope. Really it isn't the size of the change that matters, it's the action that produces it. And, if nothing else, the events of the past few weeks will be a great thing to have lived through.

Hindsight is 20/20

If this was a book instead of a blog I would have given this post the secondary title of "...or, An Apology". Because, Mum, I'm so freaking sorry.

This is my seventh month in this job now, and to celebrate my successfully passing the half way point my host parents jetted off to Valencia, leaving me to look after the kids full time for an entire weekend. And thanks to a well-timed strike followed by a student-free day, I had the boy for 4 days and the girl for 2.

Luckily this isn't going to become a regular occurrence. But with the Summer holidays looming I will inevitably be spending a lot more time alone with the children.

Let me just clarify that my kids are great. They're a sweet, friendly, helpful pair who love each other and give me next to no trouble at all. And they completely outdid themselves this weekend. But those 48 hours still made me seriously question whether I really want children. And I don't mean whether I want them anytime soon (for the record, the answer to that has always been a great, resounding "no"), but whether I actually want them ever. Of course looking after your own children would be a significantly more rewarding experience than looking after someone else's (I'm assuming, anyway). But still.

For one thing, it's boring. I wasn't expecting there to be so many dead hours. Time consuming? Sure. Expensive? Of course. But boring? I'd envisioned constant activity and eventual exhaustion. Not so much, as it turns out.

For example: On the Saturday we went to a school fete, and I finally understood why my Mum always volunteered to be involved. Because I managed to make the stalls and lunch last around an hour (a stretch, believe me. I must have visited the book stall at least 5 times), before retiring to a shady hill with a cup of Pimms and my ipod for the next 3 hours.

There was also a strange frustration/guilt combo, which really came into play on the Sunday. I took them to the movies (in case you're wondering, Kung-Fu Panda 2 - not too bad) (or should that be not 2 bad?! Not really, no). And when we got home all they wanted to do was watch TV or play video games. Their apathy towards any other suggestions was so irritating I knew I'd cave in the end, but I felt terrible for allowing them to be so lazy.

But none of that compared to how nasty they could be. The boy isn't so bad - occasionally he'll say something mildly hurtful by accident, mostly because he doesn't have any real social graces yet. But the girl, soon to be ten and just discovering the joys of adolescence, can be a right little bitch. The worst part is that they're usually so sweet and genuine and nice you can't help but like them, and then they'll turn around and go completely the opposite way, leaving you feeling strangely awful. I'm not sure why - why should I care about the opinions of any nine year old, let alone one who's only known me for half a year? But dammit, she knows the right buttons to press. Luckily for me she likes me enough and I'm close enough in age to her that I can remember how I was at that age, and therefore can quite easily guilt her into feeling bad and being nice again (definitely a responsible child care strategy).

But that's what I want to apologise for really. I turned out ok in the end, as I'm sure my 9-year-old will too. But I remember being just as precocious, dismissive and downright mean when I was her age.

So. Mum, I'm really very sorry. I'll give you a couple of Grandkids to make up for it. Well, probably. Well...maybe.

Also, if anyone has any suggestions for keeping two children under 10 entertained for 2 months, I'd be more than happy to hear them.

Laura In London

On Monday I received a phone call I had been waiting seven months for. Laura was in London.

Laura and I went to school together, but didn't really spend a lot of time hanging out until last year, when we discovered a mutual love of day drinking. And although inappropriate alcohol consumption seems a poor grounding for any kind of relationship I now consider Laura one of my closest friends, thanks primarily to the $3 drinks at Bar Century and an excess of free time. I mean, we do actually have a lot in common so that probably helped. But mostly it was the drinking.

So that's what we did.

It was incredible to see her again. She was staying in Camden, so on Wednesday I took half a day off work and went up there to meet her. Isabel came too, making Laura the one person to have infiltrated each and every one of my friendship groups. We spent the first part of the day trawling the markets, but once Isabel had to leave we got down to business.

I knew seeing Laura would be a slightly bittersweet occasion. She is basically the embodiment of everything I left behind, and seeing an old friend is so different from seeing the various family members who have come over while I've been here. Inevitably we talked about the various people we knew back home and reminisced about the past, but over the several hours we spent together we also spoke a lot about our future plans. And I have to admit it was reassuring. When Laura arrived I was super excited, but also slightly nervous. It's been so long since I've seen any of my Australian friends that I wasn't sure how things might have changed.

Once the pubs had closed and we'd run out of vodka I decided it was time to go home. And despite reassurances of her return in August ("there are heaps of times even at home when we wouldn't see each other for a month") leaving was difficult.

But not as difficult as I'd anticipated. Leaving Australia was the hardest thing I've ever done. I remember sitting on the plane, feeling totally along and realising that two and a half years is a really long time. I had no friends, no safety net and no way of knowing whether I was making a huge mistake, so I wanted to cling to everything I was leaving behind. Now all those concerns have become non-issues. London feels like home now too, and the friendships I've made here are no less valid just because they're newer. And, most importantly, I don't want to go home. Seeing Laura made me very happy, and August will be a blast, but it didn't make me miss home at all. If anything it made me feel more at home here. Besides, I'm only ever a (painfully long) plane ride away.

In the summer time

June, by and large, has been a horrid month in London, weather-wise at least. Despite it being the first month of summer there has been little sign of the blue skies and warm days that mark the season back home. So it came as no surprise to me when I looked outside on Saturday morning to see gloomy rain clouds looking back. Nevertheless I put on a summer dress and headed in to Hyde Park to celebrate the longest day of the year. And lo and behold, mere hours later London provided a minor miracle: Swedish  Midsummer marked the nicest summer day yet.

Midsummer not really being a big thing (or a thing at all) where I come from I had no idea what to expect. Turns out, in Sweden the mark the eternal sunshine by eating and drinking for as many hours as humanly possible. Presumably in Sweden this is for the full 24 hours, given the lack of night. 



Along with the incredible amounts of Swedish food and decidedly less Swedish drinks (mostly Pimms - possibly the most British of all alcohols) came flower garlands, children in traditional dress and - my favourite part of the day - dancing around the Maypole.

 By happy coincidence we shared the park with legions of Bon Jovi fans that evening, and as darkness finally began to fall hundreds of Midsummer celebrants were serenaded with thousands of die hard fans singing along to "Living On A Prayer".

If nothing else the contrast between the age-old Swedish festival and the more contemporary strains of 80's rock reminded me what an incredible place London is. Cultures that have almost nothing in common collide on an almost daily basis, and being caught in the middle is nothing if not unforgettable. Not to mention that living in such a culturally diverse city facilitates experiences that for me would be otherwise out of reach. I think an exchange I had with my Swedish friend Tess summed it up best.
Tess: When will you ever have the chance to celebrate Midsummer with Swedes again?
Me: Possibly next year?
Tess: Well that's another whole year away. Have another drink!

Glad Midsommer!

Get me to the Church on time

Yesterday I became one in a long and illustrious line of Aussies-in-London to partake in a tradition upheld since 1979. Like the good Australian girl I am, I spent my Sunday at The Church.

I first heard of The Church shortly before I left home at the end of last year. My mother is still in touch with the vast majority of her school friends, and it was at one of their Christmas parties that I learnt of the Church's existence. I was chatting with Mark, a pushing-fifty father of several, when he urged me to get to a Sunday service. The fact that this knowledge was passed down to me from a former wild child gives you some idea of how proud an antipodean tradition The Church is.

So I dragged myself out of bed at eight on Sunday morning, draped myself in a bed sheet and prepared myself for the worst (best?). Going to the Church requires a serious effort. For one thing, you have to catch the overground to get there (seeing the sky out of a train window is a sure sign you're going a long way away), and for another they only open for about four hours, after which they deposit you, drunk and disoriented, back out onto the street to make a public spectacle of yourself.

But dear God, was it ever worth it.


The hours I spent in the Church were the four most debauched hours I've had...well, since leaving Australia. The whole place is geared towards getting patrons as as drunk as humanly possible, as evidenced by the cheap booze and cheaper strippers. None of the usual societal norms seem to apply, as long as you have a drink in your hand and a vacant grin on your face. Not to mention I'd thought my toga party days had finished with my university degree. Apparently not.

I also got the chance to talk to some shearers from Wagga about Coolamon, the town I didn't think anyone actually knew about. It wasn't until I spent some time with Aussies again that I realised how true most of the stereotypes are (in the best possible way).

After the Church turfed us we trekked it all the was back into Shepherd's Bush to go to the Walkabout. By this time the conflict between the time my body thought it was and the time the rest of the world thought it was had begun to take it's toll, and after the Walkabout Tinja and I dragged our empty stomachs across to the closest pub for our first meal of the day. Unluckily for us they refused to serve ancient Greeks. Luckily, we both had regular clothes on hand, which we threw on in the middle of the street, impressing the bartender no end in the process.

After feeding we walked for a bit, trying to sober up before we went home to our respective employers. I now remember the reason why I like to sleep off a good binge. The transition from drunk to hungover is hell. When I finally stumbled back into my room around 10pm I was destroyed, and slept like a baby until 3.30 in the morning, when I woke up totally sober and totally not tired. So I watched Spirited Away and Howl's Moving Castle and reflected that any day that sees me singing "If you're happy and you know it" with a group of drunk strangers in the Maccas bathroom at 5pm is probably a good one.

Into the Woods

It's easy to get lost in London. When I'm here I almost forget that this isn't really representative of England as a whole. So it comes as a small shock every time I venture out into the countryside to see just how... English England really is.

Before I came here I watched more than my fair share of BBC dramas, but I always assumed the quaintness of the English country was overstated. It wasn't. All the pubs and cottages and well-dressed elderly people are right there, in villages barely two miles apart with names like Sweetshire and Comfortsford.

In the evening of my first day in the forest, the dog and I went for what was meant to be a casual stroll across the commons, an hour tops and home in time for supper. But the trees lured me in and before I knew it I'd done a Little Red Riding Hood on myself and gotten totally lost, forgetting that just because there are no creatures armed to kill in England doesn't mean wandering off the path into unfamiliar territory is a terribly clever idea. Two and a half hours later I found my way home, and the next day I decided the whole experience was charming (as opposed to just plain tiring) and repeated it in a different stretch of wood. 

On the plus side, the lack of people meant I could play all I liked with my self timer. And I saw a lot of deer. A walk in an English forest is so captivatingly different to walking through the Australian bush. It was almost enough to make me want to move out to the countryside one day. Almost.



Great expectations

Last week was half term for my Boy and Girl. They went sailing for the week, leaving me alone in their grandparent's house with the dog for the better part of the week. Come Thursday, however, I was home free. London beckoned, with her promises of hustle, bustle and the ubiquitous sound of sirens I'd grown accustomed to, and of which there was a conspicuous lack in the middle of an honest to God English forest. But instead of giving in to the siren call (both literal and metaphorical) of my adopted home I decided to jump on a train and see somewhere new. 

Given I was in the south already it made sense to stick below London, so I took the advice of my mothers both biological and host and went to Bath.

There is no denying Bath is a beautiful town. Nestled amongst gently rolling hills and practically drowning in history, it is little wonder this area captured and stimulated the imaginations of such literary notables as Jane Austen and Thomas Hardy. And anyone who knows me will attest to my love of history. So it is little wonder I was equally captivated by my surrounds.

The contrast between ancient and modern was especially profound here, where tourists pour through corridors snapping high resolution digital pictures of buildings and monuments that out date Jesus. While I was in the Roman Baths I found myself feeling simultaneously incredibly close to and removed from the people who lived or travelled here. In some ways I - with my mobile phone, ease of travel and own digital camera - was absolutely different from a people who made month- or year-long pilgrimages to this site to pay their respects to the gods or curse their neighbours for petty theft .

But I find when I'm close to history it is so much easier to remember those people were exactly that - real people. They lived and loved and hoped and feared and finally died. And it's also easy to remember when seeing first hand the comparative level of civilisation, despite their superstitions and brutal rituals, the Romans were a formidable and supremely advanced people.

As I sat, casually dangling my hands into a pool that was once part of the ultimate day spa and listened to commentary by Bill Bryson, I considered the expectations born of my own history. In many ways the trip to Bath was exactly what I had hoped travel would be like. I was alone, so I could make my own decisions about what to do, and when; I was staying in a hostel; when I stepped outside I was somewhere. The sun was shining, the town was beautiful, and there were buskers on every corner. But as I'd gone to sleep on the Thursday night (my first of two) I was concerned. From what I'd been told of my Mum's travels thirty-odd years ago, and my friend Laura's travels thirty-odd months ago, I had expected to walk into a hostel and pretty much walk straight out again into a pub. Despite knowing how stupid it was, I felt like I was doing something wrong.

I spent the next day being a tourist, touring the Baths and Cathedral, taking afternoon tea in the Pump room (where I had fresh clotted cream for the first time - Holy moley, it was something else), scouring the markets and dining, book in hand, by the river. In all an idyllic day. But I was still mildly perturbed. The stories I'd been told made it seem like Mum and Laura barely spent a moment without company.

Happily I went back to my room that night and made friends with two Swiss girls, with whom I went out and had a drink in a proper English pub.