the end is down

People always ask me why I've come from sunny Australia to cold, grey London. I always tell people I wanted new challenges and to have Europe on my front door step. When I arrived I compiled a list of places which I wanted to see - Stockholm, Dublin, the French Riviera, Cinque Terre, Copenhagen, Croatia, etc etc.

The last couple of trips I've done I've had the pleasure of being able to travel with a companion. So it was great to be able to head out to explore the world again on my own - the lone traveller and his own two feet. Being the control freak I am and having little time to prepare for my trip, I decided to take the easy option and visit an English speaking country on my list. There were plenty of cheap flights to Dublin, and scored a 1 pence flight from Dublin to London! Unfortunately taxes and charges and everything else added to the cost, but still, better than paying 30 pounds for a flight.

As usual I was way too early for my flight from Heathrow, only to find my Aer Lingus flight (yes, I deliberately chose to fly the Irish flag bearer) sitting on the tarmac for an hour while the congestion cleared. I was non-plussed really - I just sat there and contemplated life and listened to the sweet sounds of Irish accents waft around me.

On accents. I just love the Irish accent. Their rolling "r" sound and the melodic sing-song is enough to make you swoon for hours. Though, I can confirm that "northern Ireland is more sing-song than southern Ireland". On the flight, two Irish lads sitting next to me were having a quiet conversation of mostly swear words. Amusingly, the "f this and f that and she's a f-ing b*" discussion sounded so friendly and upbeat with their Irish accents you could be forgiven for thinking that they were talking about the posies of flowers they were going to give to their mums for Christmas.

When discussing this with my flatmate, I have since been advised that my accent has gone slightly English. Aghast at this thought (but secretly pleased at my incredible assimilation), I asked her for proof. Apparently when I had been on the phone to the plumber (my tap broke), all my questions ended with a downwards inflection. I pondered over this on yet another delayed train journey. When Aussies ask a question, the inflection goes up. Asking "would you like a cup of tea?" in English English ends in a downwards inflection. And apparently my inflections are now heading south. Admittedly, I do mix between the two - when introducing myself as an Aussie I do nasal it up a bit. And when talking to the Brits my modulation is increasingly "how now brown cow".

As is the manner in which I speak. "How bloody bizarre" is now replaced by "how very odd". "How are you" has been killed off with "Alright?". And "that'd be great" chewed up and spat out with "I should be most grateful". Yes, I should be so grateful that this brown cow is slowly turning into a ponce.

But back to Dublin. After getting an enormous green stamp in my passport, it was off to wander the streets. Dublin is an incredibly compact city. After walking for about 2 hours, I had done the complete circle and thought to myself "what next?". So I ended up backtracking and going into a few buildings such as the National Library and wandering around the very pretty Trinity College grounds where I felt like an interloper amongst the young crowd. I tried to get into the Irish Parliament, but to my annoyance discovered that you could only visit by appointment. So much for open democracy. I visited the National Photography Gallery where they had an incredibly beautiful exhibition of B&W photographs done by an Irish photographer. Pictures of the most mundane things like the wood planks on a jetty can be absolutely magnificent in black and white.

By happy coincidence, my old mate from Uni Liam, happened to be in town as well that weekend and we arranged to meet up for a bite to eat and a drink. At dinner I had an Irish stew which Liam seemed to enjoy more than I did, and I had my first Irish Guinness! It's probably not something I would ever choose to drink again - a very heavy and creamy lager, but I was glad for the experience. We wandered around the rather touristy Temple Bar area which is a series of cobbled lanes of arty shops and pubs blaring out quaint Irish music. We ended up at a nice bar and had a yarn with the friendly barmen and was introduced to the rather mellow Kilkenny lager which was more to my liking.

Back at the hostel in my 12-bed dorm without the usual necessities such as lockers or having more than 1 shower or toilet for 12 people, I met an American girl who talked and talked and talked at me for over an hour. She was lovely, but I barely had a chance to open my mouth to ask what her name was. Upon meeting nameless American girl from San Francisco the next morning at breakfast I was relieved to find that her chatter was drowned out by a very loud and most unbecoming Aussie surfer girl who was such a "get-up-and-go-and-get-my-vegemite-true-blue-bonza-she'll-be-right-hooley-dooley-maaaaaaate-no-worries-sheila" that I almost renounced my upwards inflection right then and there. It was almost as bad as the Aussie bloke who was parading around his "CATS CATS CATS CATS CATS" scarf around Dublin airport. Dude. There is no need to parade around your allegiance to Geelong.

My final hours in Dublin were spent wandering around O'Connell St, reportedly to be one of the widest streets in the world. There was a street market down one lane where all I could hear was market stall proprietors yelling "forrrr for a tenerrrr". Sorely tempted, I stopped myself from buying 4 tins of chocolates for 10 euros which i would have needed to lug all the way back with me. I wandered by Dublin's largest cathedral, the Christ Church, but decided that I only had the funds to pay for entry into one church. So I decided to go into St Patrick's given its famous Irish namesake. There wasn't anything particularly special, but it was nice and peaceful. Lunch was an expensive affair where I gave up from trying to deal with the cold and found a crepe shop where I settled in with a 5 euro crepe (oh my lorrrd!) and a copy of The Irish Times. Bliss. Nothing better than hot food and a broadsheet newspaper at a communal table - in other words, no lonesome table for 1.

But it was back to London on my 1 pence flight where I had to keep telling myself that for one pence I would be able to put up with the rude Ryanair staff. Of course, the Ryanair gates were in the old basement of the newly refurbished Dublin airport, and of course Ryanair "forgot" to load the catering trolleys on to the flight. Not many happy campers on that flight.

And talk about stamina. Upon landing at Gatwick it was straight on the train to head north to Camden to celebrate David's birthday. Alex was there too which was great, and we had a nice Indian meal with David's friends in Kentish Town. By then I was knackered and had no energy for another Kingfisher beer - so it was back down south to home.

I'm off to see my family over Christmas (not in Australia though, so you'll still have to visit me here), so I've come to the end of the road for my 2007 blog. In December 2006 I would never have thought that I would be sitting in my lovely flat in London writing about my travels to Dublin. With all the usual ups and downs and one step forward two steps back, I'm optimistic for a great start out of the blocks in 2008.

Hoping that everyone has a wonderful and safe festive season. And now, given how little money I have, I am now going to make my lunch for tomorrow. Gone are those hot lunches at the Rialto - in comes the salami, cheese and rocket baguettes. Alright, the baguettes are slightly more expensive, but at 30 pence you can give me a bit of credit. What a bloody difference a year makes for sure.

See you in '08.

the acceleration

The rush towards Christmas becomes more hectic each year. There's always Christmas drinks and parties and get-togethers. A celebration of the festive season and a celebration of the fact that we've all survived the year and can enjoy some time out with our families and friends. A time to look forward to barbecues in the sunshine. Of sitting in the sun with a nice breeze and a glass of chilled white wine. Of thinking of what presents you're going to give. And receive of course. I just need to remember to practice my "I'm very pleased with this shit that I got for kris kringle" face.

This Christmas I'll be meeting my family in Thailand for a short holiday. Not quite the white Christmas I was looking forward to, but some sun and sand will have to suffice for now. What a shame. I mean, really.

It has been a bit of a wild ride the past few weeks. I said goodbye to the Ministry of Justice to start a new post at the Health Professions Council. Just as I was getting comfortable at the MoJ and enjoying the company of my colleagues, off I went again to start afresh. And to have all the stresses of trying to make a good first impression and learning new processes and names. I don't shy away from the fact that it's been heaps stressful, but I figure if I don't drop dead now, that I'll be able to handle far bigger stresses when I finally push everyone else off the corporate ladder so I can enjoy some time being the big cheese and earn mega-bucks and act like I'm superior to everyone else.

My first week at the Health Professions Council has been interesting in a myriad of ways, and so far the people have been pretty friendly with the new interloper. I've already been out for drinks twice, and whether that's indicative of me turning into an alcoholic or something far more sinister bubbling below the surface, I won't speculate. Two points of order, Mr Speaker. I've enjoyed for the first time in my life having a tea-lady in the office who makes me a cup of tea at 10am and 2.30pm every day. I could get used to this. But then, my brother has had his own secretary from day 1, so I guess I have some way to go to catch up. The other great thing is that people play their i-pod in the office, and while I'm not usually a fan of music at the office because it can be distracting, I'm liking that I can listen to music I would not hear of ordinarily.

Went to check out Oxford last weekend which was a nice little breather away from London. Oxford is a grand old dame of England, with uppity old buildings and the like. Beautiful in the sunset, not so beautiful in the drizzling rain. I learnt some interesting things on the "official" tour, such as Oxford University not having one single campus, but a university having a multitude of colleges. The guide pointed out that people wearing "University of Oxford" tees are less likely to be students at Oxford as students' allegiance is to their college first, rather than the whole institution. I wondered how I would have turned out had I managed to study at such an exemplary institution where you have 1:1 teaching in your subject. I'm not sure how I would have coped with such intensity, but the chance to talk about politics for hours on end would have been incredibly inspiring. Understandable then how important Oxford is in terms of its prodigious output - Prime Ministers, literature, scholarly thought.

Little wonder I didn't graduate from Oxford. Poor old Melbourne University is perishing in its own thoughts of me being a member of its alumni.

My parents sent me a care package in the post this week. I was thrilled that in the package was a pile of newspapers with all the analysis of the Australian election. I know i labour on politics a lot in my blogs, but I've come to realise how much my interest in politics forms such a part of my life.

He says the man who would never dare to run for public office himself.

the little things

Some things never change. The satisfaction derived from dunking Tim Tams into a cup of tea after arriving home from work (and now that I'm living in England, the satisfaction of doing that doubles automatically). Enjoying a walk in the cold air listening to music.

And new pleasures. Watching the Thames from my bedroom window. Choosing which museum to go on the weekend. Last weekend it was the Victoria and Albert Museum - a powerhouse in the breadth and depth of its design collections. Writing in my blog and thinking back to what I've done and where I've been. Playing pool with my cousin in Chinatown and giving puzzled looks to Chinese gang-sta boys running around with British accents. And receiving puzzled looks when these British Chinese boys hear our Australian accents. Sadly, my ability in ensuring the cue hits the little white ball at the correct velocity and angle has been found wanting. David 2. Taffy 0.

Of course, when you move to a new city everything isn't always beer and skittles. There are the days when I just want to close my eyes and wait for the blackness to recede. But the end of the blackness only shows you that there's no other option but to push on. As my mum said to me before I left: breathe. smile. relax.

In my darkest days there is the joy of having friends so close, yet so far away. Truth be told, I'm not sure if I would ever survive without technologies such as skype and messenger. Maybe Telstra was a force for good after all.

Of course, the thing that has changed the least has been my appetite for politics. I was insatiable in devouring news of the election. For the first time in many years I missed watching the ABC and the count, but had to make do with a radio broadcast on the internet.

Vale the Australian Democrats. Your scrutiny of legislation in the Senate will be missed by the Australian people. But it's time to open a new chapter for progressive politics in Australia.

It's time for the sun to come out.

the diversity and similarity

A quiet Friday afternoon in an open plan office is generally never that controversial. Except, for when colleagues, unaware that an Australian interloper, sitting in their midst, are giving their views on Australians and its respective cities. Of particular note was the shellacking given to our dear Melbourne. It is "nice" and "cosmopolitan", but full of people who are "so far up their arses" and "pretentious" and "boring". Why, I disagree with you, kind sir. It's only because we live in a more liveable city than London are we allowed to become "up ourselves" about our little city. So Melbourne has its flaws such as being rather boring at times and irritatingly insular when the football season is on, but I'm damned if I'm going to sit here and cop a beating on behalf of my fellow Melburnians. I will rise up with courage... and write about it in my blog.

Whimper.

Now that I am unsure what else to write in my blog, I will fill it with inane chatter about the weather. (In fairness to me however, an English friend has told me that it is absolutely a cultural trait of the British to talk about the weather when filling in gaps in conversation).

There are some beautiful chestnut trees just inside the gates to the residential complex where I live. In the autumn, little soon-to-be-hooligans would throw fallen chestnuts at each other, and I've watched the trees turn into a magnificent mass of yellow leaves. More and more, the yellow leaves would scatter itself around the ground, until this morning, the frost shrivelled up the leaves and left the ground bare. In defiance of the cold, I have now unpacked my thickest winter jacket, and discovered that I have a ridiculous number of jackets. I have the jackets which I had brought with me from Melbourne which are laughably inadequate for an English autumn. In addition, I have 2 new jackets which I bought - 1 which would only survive an early autumn here, and another which would survive a late autumn. Some people collect stamps (Err... me circa 1990). Some people collect bags. And I collect jackets. (And speaking of clothing, I have since been informed that referring to "pants" here means underwear. So when I said to someone about me wearing black pants, I was certainly not referring to my underwear. 'Scuse me. My black trousers.)

But enough of the weather and pants/panties. Last week after having a coffee with Rob and his girlfriend, we decided to go for a walk and found ourselves at the red-carpet launch of a movie at Leicester Square. I dare say it will be my first and last time I ever join the throngs of stupid people to go to watch crowds of stupid people taking pictures of crowds of stupid people. Screaming girls, screaming older women, screaming older women complaining about screamings girls being hoisted on the shoulders of screaming girls, moronic "I'm so fabulous that I'm on the red-carpet" hosts on big-screen TVs, crowds of tourists jumping over barriers, etc etc etc. Horrendous. I am living in the land of Shakespeare (yawn) and Churchill - and this is what I get?

And speaking of democracy, I have finally been sent my postal vote ballot papers in the mail. I will sit down with a nice cup of tea and mark all my Senate preferences below the line. All 68 of them.

In another beauty contest, I was able to catch the National Portrait Gallery's exhibition of The Photographic Portrait Prize one evening before a nice Chinese dinner with my cousin and aunt. I quite enjoyed the small exhibition, but given the narrow terms of reference - that is - you take picture of a person to enter the competition - there was a limit on what there was to see. What was not limited however was the diversity of issues and types of people that were captured in these photos. In one review of the Exhibition, the critic noted that there seemed to be an abundance of ginger-haired people in the photos. Perhaps the judging panel at the Photographic Portrait Prize had the same thinking like the rest of us 20 million Australians. We're going to replace a short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative with another short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative.

A somewhat tenuous link, I know. And just for the record, the short, glasses-wearing, nerdy, economic conservative does not refer to me. If only.

the non-stop fireworks

Tis the season for fireworks.

In the lead up to Guy Fawkes day, Guy Fawkes day itself and now the aftermath of Guy Fawkes day, there have been non-stop fireworks going around London. Being conveniently located on the banks of the Thames, we have prime views of fireworks that people are lighting up across the Thames. On Saturday night we could see literally the entire north side of the Thames light up with about 4 lots of fireworks going on. At one point we couldn't decide where to look - east? west? east? - it was ridiculous the abundance of fireworks going on.

I think I have now been way overexposed to fireworks. I can hear enormous ka-booms happening all around, and I sit here at my table with the curtains drawn, ignoring the festivities outside. Yes, I have been incredibly spoilt. I guess you need to be here to understand why I find fireworks rather boring now.

With London getting colder and a growing inclination to hibernate indoors with a glass of red and a good book, it has been an achievement every time I force myself out of the house to do the grocery run or gasp! go and check out what London has to offer. Frances and I went to see Ratatouille on Saturday afternoon which was great fun. Highly recommended - it was very cute and very witty, and being the sap I am, I love a happy ending. Only in movies mind you - I'm way too bitter and twisted to enjoy such sacharine nonsense outside of reality.

Of course, there were plenty of good morals for children in the movie - don't steal, be loyal to your friends, have a good attitude to life, keep your mind open, etc etc etc. Worthy sentiments. What was not so worthy were the little shits that were running up and down the aisles during the films. Disgraceful. As I complained to my boss today, I didn't yell at them, lest I get stabbed in the back. It's quite bad nowadays where people are fearful of standing up to disrespectful youngsters behaving antisocially - everyone is afraid of being attacked with a knife.

Anyhow. Back to frivolity (hang on, this dried up old prune is going to check out the ENORMOUS fireworks that are happening outside my window). What made me almost cry with laughter however was the short Pixar animation before Ratatouille started. It was about a little green alien sitting a test for spiriting away a human to their UFO. The expression of the examiner and the sweaty desperation of the alien candidate had me in hysterics. Another Pixar great (along with the "For the Birds" short which is also worthy of your viewing).

To prevent my brain becoming pickled I went to the Imperial War Museum on Sunday to check out a new exhibition they have - "Weapons of Mass Communications: War Posters". It was a fascinating collection of posters used to spur people to join the army in World War 1 and 2 - displaying not just British posters, but German and French and Austrian posters as well. The collection interestingly also contained anti-war posters of today to provide a balanced viewpoint.

The Ministry of Justice also keeps on sending me out into the field to continue my education of the justice system. I was sent to meet the Chief Inspector and Duty Prosecutor of the Newham Borough police station today which was another eye-opening experience. Unfortunately most of the time was spent in meetings, but I do intend to go back to tour the station and to meet with some of the officers to hear their views. I am quite privileged to be able to gather different viewpoints on what makes the justice system tick. Are defendant witnesses being looked after adequately? How does the relationship between the Crown Prosecutor and the Crown Court assist to get the case to trial? What can the department do to better equip information sharing between different justice agencies?

These are all questions that deserve time and effort and I finally feel like I can help to make a difference. And it's a good feeling.

Just like watching a brilliant display of fireworks, really.

(all the way to) the top

Seeing Les Miserables one Saturday night in London with my dad was the perfect entree to my weekend getaway to Paris. Not that there was revolution in the air, or unrequited love, pursuits of prisoners or the rescue of orphans, but its antithesis - food, shopping, wine and carousing down the banks of the Seine.

With my dad in Europe for business meetings, and my sister staying in my little flat for a work conference, it was perfect timing to enjoy an autumn in Paris, and a great excuse to take off a Friday to take a long weekend. I couldn't have asked for a nicer start to my mini-holiday. A very civilised lunch in a local cafe with a very patient waiter - where triumphantly I ended up ordering herring (that was the only thing I could find in our tiny tourist dictionary) and a piece of porc. Then, a ride along the clackety metro taking us straight to the Eiffel Tower where my sister and I prodded my long-suffering dad into climbing the Eiffel Tower by foot. Funnily enough Dad did very well - we powered past some rather unfit people as they clutched the railing, panting for breath. Dad did get tired though, and we left him at the first level.

But it was all the way to the top for the rest of us. Having been to the top of the Tower before, I had seen it all before, but I did marvel at how beautiful Paris was, admiring the trees turning their colours in the cool autumn afternoon. A walk to the Arc de Triomph and a stroll along the Champs Elysees perfected a cruisy afternoon. I was however, very pleased to be able to do some shopping along the Champs Elysees. The first shop I entered I found a great duffle coat. Having searched the globe for a duffle jacket that would fit my rather skinny frame for the past 2 years, I knew I wanted the coat once I put it on, twirling in front of the mirrors. Another guy, stopped to look at me and my twirling and immediately put on the same jacket as I was wearing. We looked at each other and knew that the jacket was the goods. We both ended up buying the jacket, and wearing it out of the shop. Mutual validation - you should try it sometime.

Dinner was going to be the death of me. Having continued to snack on coffees and pastries all day, I continued on my path of gluttony with soup, duck and a very rich creme brulee. It was a rather uncomfortable night later as I lay in bed, a days worth of food churning in my stomach. But it was well worth it after months of eating supermarket sandwiches. Poor me.

The next day dawned with an early morning kwa-sson so we could beat the early morning crowds at the Notre Dame cathedral. We spent a little bit more money to go into the Cathedral's treasury where we saw a few of the more precious items on display, including the robes worn by one of the monsignors hundreds of years ago. I've always found cathedrals to be relaxing places (sans rude tourists taking flash pictures while people are in the middle of a prayer), and it was nice to take a moment to light a candle and think and reflect.

This rather mild form of contemplation continued on at the Musee D'Orsay with its excellent collection of contemporary art. I enjoyed seeing the Van Gogh collection again, and my sister, dad and I picked our favourite pictures so that we might buy some prints later. After a couple of hours however, the return on investment had its margins slashed (read: we got sick of art and wanted to eat lunch and go shopping) and on leaving, found that dad & sister had been to the gift shop and bought me a print which I had been wanting to get for a long time. Tres happy!

The rest of the afternoon was spent moseying through Parisian boutiques, ending up at the Galarie Lafayette - an enormous but very glitzy department store which on that day wasn't glitzy at all but completely packed out with hoardes of shoppers. Admittedly we did drop a few euros on some rather nice clothes here and there (well, the main beneficiary being my sister) but it was all good fun trying on the designer labels and making myself feel all ooh la la.

Voila.

On our final day of Paris we headed off to Versailles where we wanted to visit the Palace. An hour's drive netted us a big disappointment when we saw the line to get in to the Palace which we estimated to be at least a 2 hour wait. We decided against it given that time was against us and headed into the city centre where a very cute old little lady directed us to the centre and told us to visit the markets.

I am usually not a fan of markets, but it was quite fun to see the cakes, the cheese and all the fresh produce. I scored a bottle of red wine to bring back with me and a loaf of olive bread to bring back on the Eurostar home. But our Paris trip wasn't quite complete without a quick visit to an outlet shopping centre in suburban Paris (well, "outlet" is a bit too cheap a way to describe it given the first cab off the rank was Burberry, closely followed by Bally and then Ferragamo). There was some more twirling, and I scored a cool pair of Campers and a couple of designer ties for bargain prices. Go me.

However, as we soon found out we weren't going anywhere on the freeway back to central Paris for our train home to London. Stuck in a monumental traffic jam, we sweated and chewed our fingernails for 2 hours as we inched forward, killing us slowly with anxiety. We made it - just - after fighting through the chaos of everyone wanting to take the last 2 trains back to London. With a stamp at French immigration, a stamp at British immigration - we were off!

Only to arrive back to London and find ourselves in a massive queue for cabs. I have never been in a Black Cab before, and I don't think I will take another go after watching the spiralling meter chew through all my pounds. The cab driver laughed at me when I told him that I took the night bus rather than a cab - well, he should bloody well know how expensive it was.

The next day I dispatched my sister off to Heathrow with her suitcase in peak hour chaos - she was not a fan of London public transport having been jostled and pushed around on the trains. Having fought my way on to the Tube with her suitcase, I turned around and found my sister standing forlornly on the platform, people hustling her out of the way - like sharks circling fresh (tourist) blood. Needless to say, someone's poor brother had to haul his sister onto the Tube before she got left behind.

Just one final note to satisfy my ego. I won a reward and recognition award from the head of the Strategy Development and Projects Division for my suporting work on a few projects. Was a bit embarrassed, but pleased all the same. I ges I can spel and speek propa inglish arfta orl.

Onwards and upwards (to the top!)

the train journey

I usually love train journeys. There's the stressless boarding of trains without the security checks, the fact that you can watch the countryside roll past, and the chance to wander up and down the carriages to stretch your legs.

I am currently re-considering this rather romantic notion since my last train trip to Leeds a couple of weekends ago. First, someone spilt yoghurt on me at the station. Now usually, this is not a real problem, you just wipe it off and get on with life. But since I was going to see the Scottish National Orchestra later that evening, I was wearing my good shoes, my good pants, and I had even put on a shirt outside work hours. In fact, I was feeling very pleased with myself as I had perfected the preppy look (indeed, when I was walking out of Leeds train station, a lady asked me if the train I had got off had come from London). But now, I had streaks of yoghurt on my shoes.

Then I found my reserved seat was being occupied by someone who clearly had made herself comfortable. After kicking her out of my seat, I was even more pleased with myself with being assertive enough to do it. I've realised that I've become far more assertive - being meek will give people the impetus to make you eat earth, not inherit it, when you are living in London. Being pleased was a shortlived feeling when the lady's heavy suitcase fell on my head. Not one person asked me if I was ok as I replaced the suitcase precariously above me, all while the lady's little girl continued to throw a tantrum, wailing and sulking and moaning and stamping on the ground.

Impressed, I was not.

Things improved later that evening after a nice meal with my uncle and a really nice evening at the orchestra. Sitting in the audience watching the orchestra members file on stage, I realised I missed being on the stage - just for a little bit. That nervous buzz in the air as you take your seat - the glare of the lights, the expectation sitting heavily in the air (which is usually just the overbearing warmth in the hall). As my concentration sharpened, I remembered the little things that you forget with the passage of time. The protocol of the deputy leader of the orchestra leading the tuning of the orchestra. The oboe's clear note, piercing through the fine tuning. The leader, the most senior of the violin players walking on. The conductor acknowledging the applause.

I wasn't sure whether I was going to be able to last 2 hours worth of intense classical music. But I had underestimated the beauty of the music. In a Ravel piece, the violins, together, would peak above the woodwind, and graciously ebb away to an oboe or bassoon or clarinet soloist. There was serenity at last - I do wonder however whether this newfound appreciation of classical music was as a result of my classical music traning as a kid (read: being made to play the piano and violin like every good Chinese boy), or whether the fact that I had been so removed from classical music that this was in fact a re-birthing for me?

Though, on the other hand, does anyone want to go clubbing with me in London?

the bright side of life

In the tearoom at work, someone has put up a list of suggestions for the national motto for Great Britain. The increasing number of scrawled lines include

"always look on the bright side of life"
"we apologise for the delay"
"i do not believe it"
"please complete this in triplicate, sign in all indicated places and initial all signatures"
"mustn't grumble"
"yeah?"

The list continues with lessening humour and wit. I however, was drawn to the motto of always looking on the bright side of life. For example, this morning while walking in the rain I unwittingly stepped in some doggie do, for when i got to work, there was a god-awful smell while sitting at my desk, and I wondered to myself having had a shower, and wearing a new shirt, whether I had sweated that much in on the train journey. Nevertheless, I found the offending shoe and cleaned it - simply by going outside and walking around in the puddles. Brilliant. No hike to the nearest park necessary.

I had a rather nice weekend actually, ending up in Covent Garden twice to gawk at the tourists. Covent Garden is actually quite a nice area to have a coffee, and there are markets (which I usually hate) and nice shops and a couple of nice cafes as well. Over the course of the weekend I have had 2 coffees (although, they don't do flat whites here. The sacrilege!), a chocolate eclair, and a piece of pie in a patisserie.

Just on patisseries. Albeit a Chinese one. A little Chinese cake shop has sprung up on the edges of Chinatown. It is the type of shop which brings you back to when you were 8 years old, begging your mum to buy more cakes, when she has already filled a little box with the cakes and pastries you wanted. The type of shop that inevitably brings a smile to any bitter and twisted old man. The type of shopfront where you stand with your nose pressed against the dirty window or linger in the doorway for a moment of warmth. The type of shop with custard tarts, swiss rolls, sesame balls and pineapple buns lining the windows, drawing you in with its temptations of deja vu.

These of course are a few of my favourite things.

It's going to be a busy next few weeks. I'm off to Leeds to watch the Scottish National Orchestra, then the following week my Dad arrives in town for work. And for sheer timing, my sister also arrives the same week for a conference. At the end of October, I am taking a long weekend off and will take my sister with me to Paris where we will meet Dad. Let me indulge myself for a moment as I contemplate a vision of me wandering around Montmartre in the cool autumn twilight, searching for the perfect coffee and French patisserie.

Now that is the bright side of life.

the flu and the cold

What a week.

The weekend I get asked out for drinks by 4 friends, I am holed up at home, passed out in bed with the flu.

The week had an ominous beginning. One day after work, I got stuck in the lift in my own apartment block. The lift stopped at my level and then stopped working. I rang the alarm and no-one came to rescue me (the double glazed windows must be good here) and then I decided to call for help. The overly cheery chirpy girl at the end of the line did not inspire confidence. She assured me she would send a techie to have a look. No reassuring words or estimation of time. Only a request for my mobile number so they could call me. In a lift which had minimal reception.

With the milk curdling at my feet, the ice cream melting and the celery becoming less crisp by the minute I was getting cross. I called my flatmate in desperation and she was home! The blessed girl came out and pressed the buttom a couple of times. The lift went up and down. And down and up.

And opened.

There i was, dripping in perspiration with orange Sainsburys bags strewn in front of me, my jacket on the ground. Not a happy chappy.

Later that week, I was sitting at home after work and suddenly felt extremely tired. Went to bed and started to shiver. Then came the fever. I woke up in what seemed like 3am - and found out it was only 7pm!

I have now also caught a cold.

I just loooove the cold weather. And the incubation tubes hereafter known as the London Underground. Where is my mum's chicken soup when you need it?

Yes. I am a glutton for sympathy.

the mediocrity

I have just had a taste of what the london winter has in store for me. Walking to the train station this morning I was not a happy camper with rain coming in at me sideways, my umbrella being turned inside out and my shoes filling up with water. I was so drenched that on the train I had a water dripping from the inside of my pants into my shoes.

It is now sunny, by the way. Grrr.

Anyone would think that we were in the depths of Melbourne.

Despite all that I did have a good weekend. My flatmate's mum is in town for the week, so on Saturday we toddled off to a matinee West End show. There were few remaining cheap tickets left, so out of the remaining good ones we elected to see "Chicago". In one word. Disappointing. Let me elaborate. Having not seen the movie, the plot line was somewhat ill-conceived, the singing/dancing/hoo-ha was a bit flat. One international superstar whose only claim to fame was that her dad was famous was the new attraction in the show - and when she merely appeared on stage she got claps and cheers.

She was flat, couldn't sing in tune to save herself, and was just plain boring. She got applauded and applauded and applauded again. Whatever happened to applauding real talent, and not just pumping the ego of a mediocre starlet?

What was worse was that the band was actually on stage - and given half the show was all for dancing around the stage, the performers were somewhat forced to twirl around in a shoebox. The conductor's baton was irritatingly distracting during the performance. At the end of the show I was grudging in my respect for the two main actors who I am sure are less than happy at being overlooked by a little showy starlet who is unfairly stealing the limelight from them.

Enough of my rant. I will make it up to myself and go see another show sometime. I am considering seeing an opera. There is a drive to promote the opera to the under-30s and students with half-price tickets. In my quest to really take advantage of London's heavy patronage of arts and culture, I am thinking of paying a tenner to sit in the bloodnose section and watch a famous Opera. Aida maybe? The Magic Flute? We'll see.

I did manage to see David, my cousin on Saturday night. He has finally moved into his flat in Camden and I got to check it out. His flat, consisting of 4 PhD students definitely had the feel of a student flat. I can imagine all 4 of them sitting in their living room drinking red wine discussing the theorems of quantum physics while at my own flat, you would find me drowning in cheap white wine while checking up on my facebook page.

Camden however, is a buzzing area with lots of students. And goths. Though somewhat freakish in the number of goths and other oddballs wandering around, there are a good number of nice restaurants around. I was relieved to enjoy a decent pasta and bottle of Chianti, as my repertoire of dishes at home was beginning to fray in desperation for change. I mentioned that my next planned trip was to Portugal, and David is keen to tag along, so I'm looking forward to planning that.

Sunday was a bit of a write-off where incorrect information on the web, coupled with a moronic security guard at the National Theatre turned a nice sunny afternoon in South Bank into a whole waste of time. I was attempting to check out the Landscape Photographer of the Year exhibition but was thwarted when I arrived too early before opening time (making me amble up and down the Thames for an hour), then finding out later that the gallery wasn't open at all. I went home in annoyance and ironed my shirts.

the architecture

Back in myyyy day, I was the ever goody-goody two shoes who always volunteered to relinquish my weekends to help out on our school opening days. I would play in the school orchestra to ear-bash visitors wanting to see how cultured we were, show off the library's newly laminated books which would only ever be read by the most enthusiastic nerdish-types (read: me), reverently pause by the chapel and point out the marble alter and take my ever-increasingly bored tour group to a football demonstration as if they had never seen a match in their lives.

So the shoe was on the other foot last weekend when London held its annual "open weekends" where hundreds of buildings in London would open their doors to the public for free - to take a gander/stickybeak/whatever form of bird you wanted to see. The criteria for buildings being on this list was that it needed to be of architectural significance, whether that be historical or just in terms of sheer beauty. Many buildings on show were winners of the British Architecture awards, but there were also schools, places of worship, office buildings and the odd government building that had put its best foot forward for the day.

My attempt to get up early to beat the crowds was thwarted with me taking my sweet time eating a bowl of cereal. By the time I managed to haul myself out of the house, I found myself joining an hour-long queue to get into the Bank of England. The Bank of England was a lovely old building and we got to see the nondescript Governor's office. At the end of the tour there was a gold bar on display which you could stick one hand into the glass case to try and lift up the bar. It was the closest I had ever got to a gold bar in my life - and later I had to make do with the chocolate coins from the gift shop.

The next building required another hour wait in the line where I munched on a toblerone block to pass the time. I do not know why I mentioned that, as it has absolutely no consequence at all to this blog. Except I feel I am breaking out in zits now. The Lloyds Bank building is what they call London's answer to the Pompidou Centre in Paris. Both are hideously stunning buildings on the outside - in the Lloyds' building's case - of steel and pipes and just general ugliness. Inside however, was a different tune altogether. The open plan trading floors are impossible to describe - I heard many people comment on the fact that they would love to be there on a working day to feel the buzz. The central feature of the building is that the core of the building leads up to a magnificent glass atrium - and when you take the stomach-churningly fast elevator to the top of the building, you can see down into all the trading floor spaces below. It is a crazy building, but not as crazy as 30 St Mary's Axe, which is more commonly known as the Gherkin.

I didn't get into the Gherkin as pre-booked entry tickets had been snapped up months before. It is a major landmark on the London skyline, and in the sunlight, another shimmering building with the most sexy voluptuous curves. Crudely putting it, the building is sex on wheels. And not because people have described the building as something else on that line. Check out my pictures on my facebook page and you'll see what I mean.

From the City of London borough, I ventured back to more familiar territory in the City of Westminster. I checked out the Foreign and Commonwealth Office building which was surprisingly creaky and decrepit inside, save for the rather glamourous official rooms which had been restored to its full we-will-colonise-you-whether-you-like-it-or-not-and-don't-you-dare-resist glory. But it was Portcullis House, the building situated directly across the Houses of Parliament which was my favourite. Portcullis House, which houses Parliamentary staff, is not a particularly good looking building, but isn't it all about "personality" nowadays? Inside was a surprisingly bright, sunny, open space which housed a large atrium (seems to be a common theme here), and shiny new offices for Members of Parliament, and Parliamentary committee rooms. There were some fabulous photos and artwork on display too. My favourite paintings consisted of a sitting of the House of Commons in 1986, Margaret Thatcher sitting at the Prime Minister's chair, resplendent in pale blue within a sea of gray suits. The artist clearly had a sense of humour, for observing from the visitor's gallery were former Prime Ministers Churchill and Gladstone. My next favourite portraits were of Tony Blair, William Hague and Charles Kennedy - leaders of their respective parties at the last general election. What I liked about these side-by-side portraits was that the width of each canvas was in direct proportion to the number of votes that each party won at the election.

Having had enough of central government, my next stop was the visually appealing Channel 4 offices with more glass and more sharp edges. By then, I was getting tired, but felt somewhat obligated to visit the Royal Courts of Justice as a Ministry of Justice employee. I made the mistake of getting roped into a tour, and left it after 5 minutes when the tour leader turned out to be so dull that his group dwindled to less than 5 people after 30 seconds of his spiel. Even so, the care factor rating had dropped into the ether, and I left very soon after making some half-hearted attempts to look around the building. Walking back to the Tube along the Thames, I came across another "open house" - this time, the ship which housed the some mariners association. While there were some interesting snippets, my internal whingeing was getting louder, so the moment our guide turned around to point out something, I managed to duck out of the ship - but only after enduring 45 minutes of listening to a rant about boats whilst wistfully looking across at the Thames Festival that was occuring on the other side of the river.

The next day I got my wish. With a chat to my friends on skype back home in the mornin', I was off to Southbank to check out the Thames Festival and City Hall. The Thames Festival wasn't particularly interesting, but I did enjoy visiting City Hall where the spiralling staircase wrapped around the inside allowed you to view right down into the City Hall chamber. There were some glorious views of the London skyline from the building, and I was very jealous of the people who could work in such a nice building.

I ducked back home, where for the first time since arriving in London, I had an afternoon nap. As I sunk into my bed with the London sunshine streaming in, I remembered that I was meant to meet my mate Rob later that night to check out the Thames Festival's fireworks. I overslept, woke up groggy, managed to find something to eat, and then managed to be late meeting Rob.

The fireworks were well worth it. They were quite possibly the most spectacular fireworks I have seen in my life - and I couldn't even begin to imagine what their New Year's fireworks would be like.

Just imagine.

the registration

As many of you will know, i am slightly obsessed with politics. Every morning, it is a joy for me to read the wrap up of daily political news while the country sleeps half a world away. I read the analysis pages from both conservative and left-wing newspapers, laugh at the cartoons of whoever is being lampooned that day (i must admit my favourite is of Alexander Downer in fishnet stockings), and read the blogs of people lampooning each other. You conservatives are about to be annihilated, they say. You left-wing greenie tree huggers will be over-run by the unions, they shout.

I sit in my office in Westminster, forlorn in the fact that as a civil servant, I must be impartial to political sides.

In the United Kingdom that is. Which gives me free rein to pooh-pooh our current crop of politicians back home, despite having worked as a hack in a previous life. Is that my karma poking me again? (nah, false alarm. it's just my facebook).

I am one of the few people who can't wait to vote. And who enjoys lining up to cast my ballot, deciding whether to eat now at the primary school's sausage sizzle, or to eat later (i always eat later so that my greasy, tomato-sauce covered hands don't stain my ballots). And who actually likes staying in on election night to watch and clap enthusiastically at the swing at Eden-Monaro, and the fact that the national swing hasn't been replicated in Western Australia, and that the honourable member for Menzies is in a shit-fight. Not one of my contemporaries will even bat an eyelid while they drink their vodka and lime in some bar, while I sit in my pyjamas, clutching a cup of tea for dear life, smug in the knowledge that I am seeing history fall into place. Or at least my least favourite pollies being re-elected for their third election in a row.

So, with a gentle email reminder from the Department of Foreign Affairs, I went to the Electoral Commission website to fill out a form to register as an overseas elector (and I'll bet that not one other Aussie in London gives a fig enough to register). I filled in my form, only to realise that you can't submit the damn form online. You have to print it out and send it by post. There was a fax option, but I can't fax out of my offices in a central government department. I could post it, but shouldn't there be an easier way to do this?

I gave up and resigned myself to a postal vote when the election is called - though for me, this would be going against my own religion.

Damn, there goes my karma again.

(if you are confused with all the karma speak, read my previous posts. That will learn you for not reading my blog in its entirity!)

the excess

Last weekend I decided to head into central London for a spot of shopping to replace my favourite pair of shoes. Big mistake for one who hates crowds, doesn't like being battered by women charging around shops with their disinterested/overly interested) boyfriends/metrosexual-boyfriends, hates beery football crowds on public transport, and hates crowds some more - well. You reap the seeds you sow.

Regent and Oxford streets were madness. At one stage you had to line up to cross the road. People were pushing against each other, you could barely enter shops, and I was getting grumpy, tired and irritable. I moseyed in and out of some shops with little enthusiasm, and had a wander down the famous Carnaby St. I don't know whether it was because of the high expectations that I had of shopping in London, but I was disappointed with the offerings along Oxford, Regent and Carnaby streets. Sure there was a lot of variety, but everything seemed just so out of my budget reach, and as you turned from Regent St into Oxford St, the brand name stores started to repeat themselves. At least in Melbourne there was only one of each shop on Collins St, Chapel St and Chadstone (and I just realised they all start with the letter 'C'), but when you've been to 3 Zara shops and not bought anything, you know you're in strife (or in my case, doing well).

I visited the Apple store which was incredibly busy. I now understand the allure of the Apple brand. The store was sleek, interactive, and staffed with clearly competent and knowledgeable people. Most people were taking advantage of the free internet (now there's a tip if you are in London and need the internet - just head to corner of Regent and Oxford St near the Oxford Circus tube stop) and checking out the new gadgets on display. I could have spent serious money in there, but knew that the rent, the gas, the electricity, the monthly travelcard, the council tax, the tv licence, the gym membership and the weekly shopping run beckoned.

Just on shopping. At a major shopping complex about half an hour from where I live, they have banned the wearing of hoodies as many bogan ("chav") youths wear them and people seem to be threatened by them. There is a story where a 58 year old teacher went to her local Tesco (Coles or Safeway, what have you) and was asked to take off her hoodie. Ridiculous. And to add to it, some pubs in England have also banned people wearing Burberry! For some time, antisocial chavs would wear Burberry and be generally disagreeable to those around them. What is this country coming to? Banning hoodies (i have one) and Burberry (my mother wears Burberry glasses!)? Not that my mum would ever find herself in some god-forsaken pub in England - that would be the end of the world as we know it.

the milestone

Somehow, despite having moments of just wanting to hide under my doona back home in Melbourne, I've managed to survive 3 months in London without monumentally screwing something up and having to come home with my tail in between my legs, broke and destitute. But I've come to realise that I don't regret for a minute coming over here and without going into superlatives and hyperbole, I'm just starting to open my eyes - to explore, to seek, to challenge, to take on this challenge.

The thing about London is that it provides such a breadth of diversity that you feel like you're always dipping your toes into the water. It's cold and murky underneath (which also seems to fit the description of the mould in my bathroom which I can't seem to remove, despite my energetic scrubbing and vast amounts of chemical cleaners which is now assisting to decompose some dead goldfish flushed down some random London kid's toilet), but once I clear away the perpetual cloud of cynicism that hovers above my head, threatening a good bucketing down of grumpiness, I begin to enjoy myself. Relax a little. Untense the shoulders that every single person who's ever given me a massage has commented about.

Earlier this week there was a Tube strike and I was forced to walk to my connecting station from my office. I was seething that one single solitary union could hold to ransom an entire city of commuters who actually needed to go to work, but the road opened up an incredible view of Westminster Abbey, Big Ben and the London Eye - a 3-in-1 deal where tourists can go and tick off their checklist. Regardless of the fact that the road to Big Ben was swarming with tourists, I looked up into the pretty blue sky and was mesmerised by the reflection of Big Ben in all it's golden glory. It is a truly stunning monument when bathed the sunlight. And it struck me that I can walk down this road everyday just to go to work.

Even better than the view however, is having friends from Melbourne move to London. My mate from Melbourne, Rob has landed in London after a wikid 6 months or so in South America. For those that don't know Rob, he's the quintessential (pun intended, for those who know him) funnyman, the man can't stop being amusing (and the type of bloke, I suspect, I wouldn't have been able to control in class with a smidgen of dignity had I been his school teacher). Some of my colleagues recommended that we head down to Clapham for a few pints, and so we did. But there the disappointment started where both of us had envisaged pub after bar after pub, only to find ourselves desperately searching for a pub, any pub, and even that one there with the old men smoking outside and the Sky TV turned on inside full blast with a man commentating on comments about the football scores.

Just on drinking. I was speaking to a random Londoner who had a theory that Australia was akin to being an adolescent boy. His comment that our national fixation seemed to be on nothing else but beer, women and football drew nothing but applause from me (as we both were as bored with our codes of football as our respective countries were fixated on it). Needless to say, I was too polite to answer back that his country also had a fixation on beer, women and football as well, and one would only need to look at the state of their News Corp-published newspapers to come to that nary a conclusion.

Which brings about the question: is London more cultural than Melbourne? Even in a comparison with Melbourne (being the culture-capital of Australia), London without doubt has more for the non-neanderthal/heathen/philistines like myself. Last weekend I was privileged to see an exhibition of the World Press Photographer of the Year competition. It was without doubt, the most challenging, thought-provoking and beautiful collection of photography I have ever seen. There were a few photos where I almost threw up. The cruel, unjust and bloody world we live in was unflinchingly displayed in front of us. Stark. In colour. And in black and white. The civil wars. The war. The bombs. And the aftermath of it all. But as we scratch under the surface of that mould in my bathroom, we find the untold beauty of photos of the ordinariness of New Yorkers on their walk to work, of men praying before their football match, of thousands of penguins on the march in a slowly melting Arctic.

But then again, I did have an excellent yum cha before the exhibition, so perhaps the char siu bao was clouding my views? Me thinks it's time to check.

the lack of

With my mental capacity shot to being able to plan only one week in advance, it was left to my flatmate, Frances to book our long weekend holiday to Bath. Gone were Taffy's usual months of planning, of reading guide books, of cross-referencing review sites and making lists of lists. Instead, I found myself packing my bags on the night before departure without silent introspective protest, without any maps, and my life in my daypack.

But as unprepared as I ever was on a holiday, it was onwards to the World Heritage city of Bath. Bath is an amazingly beautiful city. Not in the romantically beautiful sense as I have experienced in Barcelona or Florence, not in the striking and glaring beauty of Hong Kong's harbour or New York's chutzpah, not in the determined sophistication of Melbourne's little laneways. Bath's beauty was mature. Statesmanlike. A city that you would want to be your Prime Minister if the city was a political candidate.

It must have been the sunlight that dazzled my senses. Green green gardens (with free deckchairs for its residents), cobbled steps, reasonably good buskers in city squares and old stately buildings.

Pity about our accommodation. With the students gone, the University of Bath had rented out its student accommodation to the general public and we were to make full use of it. Driving through the pretty campus, we were hopeful of a cosy little student dorm, until we got lost. So lost in fact that we had to ask a (probably) postgraduate student who thought that I was a student checking out the University before classes started in late September. He put us straight - in the direction of the most ugliest building that required nothing more than dynamite. With pale blue doors and rusty lime green bathrooms, circa 1960, we were amazed that students would pay money to live in the prison-like quarters. What was worse was the bedding - the springs were so tough that at night I would fit my shoulder blades in between the springs so that the springs wouldn't dig into my spine.

The aqua-coloured car we hired was much more comfortable, the new-car-smell meking me feel dozy. The first day we headed up north into the Cotswolds which the English rave about. We drove through some lush hills, but became progressively disappointed as we passed through some boring and even more boring English towns. Our idealised notions of quaint little places serving tea was displaced with towns bearing nothing but a few cars parked on the side of the road and some closed pubs. Hours past as we drove north, bypassing towns and then finally screeching to a halt in a traffic jam in some English town which I can't remember the name of. Turns out we were in the waiting line for people packing up their stalls at the local market.

I must commend my own driving. For those that know me, I can be one of those drivers easily panicked - but I impressed myself with handling the lack of speed limit signs, the lack of road signs, the lack of patience on the side of English drivers, and the lack of knowing where the hell I was going. At one stage while my map-reader was asleep, I turned onto the M4 instead of the A4 and almost took us a quarter of the way back to London. Funnily enough I didn't panic (again, despite the lack of turn-offs for miles on end) and merely continued on merrily away until I was able to reverse back to Bath.

The next day was going to be a special one for me. Stonehenge was one of the must-see destinations on my imaginary list, and we headed towards there first thing in the morning. We stopped by a small diner to pick up some breakfast, but then beat a hasty exit when we realised that the 2 ladies working the diner had yet to even take the order of a family of 15 people sitting next to us. Snacking on chips in the car for breakfast, Stonehenge lazily appeared on the horizon - in between 2 major highways. Parking was expensive as was entry, but I was truly excited to see the mysterious stones. Unfortunately you can't walk in between the stones, but I was content to take too many pictures and play tourist for a while.

It was on to Salisbury where we had a Sunday roast pub lunch which the English seem to do very well, and a wander around Salisbury Cathedral which has Britain's tallest spire. We also visited the very bizarre Old Sarum which is an abandoned castle with only the base remaining in the middle of a huge empty moat. It was then a long drive back to Bath through more English towns with nothing more to offer us than somewhere to fill up our petrol.

The last day in Bath (congratulations for getting this far in this post) saw us checking off the rest of our to-do list. We visited the famous Roman Baths which were surprisingly situated right in the heart of Bath (I always thought the Baths were out in the countryside). After a quiet lunch watching a xylophone-playing busker in the town square (while eating a Sally Lunn bun which was meant to be famous but another anti-climax), it was off back to London.

I was glad to get back to London - and not only to get away from the University of Bath's dorms (and its surrounding nondescript towns), but more because there's always special about returning home when you've been travelling, even if it's just to not have springs sticking into your back while you sleep.

the little girl who would never become queen

There was a recent survey in the newspaper ("The Guardian", for all of you tree-hugging lefties - which incidentally is read by my MoJ colleagues every day, in contrast to its rather dour cousin, "The Independent" which is generally left untouched behind my desk) rating the most disappointing landmarks in the world for travellers. Amongst them, was everything from the Eiffel Tour (check), Las Ramblas in Barcelona (check), Buckingham Palace (check), Stonehenge (damn, there goes my weekend plans) to the London Eye (check).

I must say that the London Eye (erm, correction: the British Airways London Eye) is quite a sight when bathed in an early sunset. On Vicki's last evening in London, 3 of us wandered down to Southwark for dinner and then moseyed our way on to Waterloo to take a flight on this new London icon. Fortunately the lines weren't long as Frances and I had threatened to abort mission if we were going to have to wait more than an hour. The security was not as intense as one would have thought - I got jibed for holding Vicki's bags of shopping, and Frances was questioned more persistently when she ignored a question of where she was from. My explanation of "I'm from Australia, but I'm actually living here, and gosh golly blather" drained the life out of the security guard's eyes.

So up we went - so slowly that we had to check whether we were actually moving (you can tell when you look down at the land below). We had some great views of Westminster Palace (i.e the Houses of Parliament) and one of the main train stations at Charing Cross (where I regularly disembark when getting into central London). Unfortunately, we couldn't see many other landmarks, but it was nice just to see London from afar, and tick off another sight on my checklist.

Speaking of tourists. One late afternoon after work, I was running down the stairs to catch the train (my first of 3 to get home) when the door beeping started and I managed to squeeze myself into the mush of people. However, behind me was probably the most ambitious family I have ever seen. Father holding young son's hand made it on in the nick of time. Mother and young daughter (holding bags of touristy shopping) got caught in the doors and couldn't dislodge their bags of shopping in the doors. Let me just paint a picture of how strong the doors are when they close: 2 men at the doors were unable to open the doors which were fastened shut (except for the space left in between with one very crushed bag with the words Buckingham Palace on it). Panic on tourist family's face ensured. Eventually, a whole group of us managed to open the doors, the Tube rep on the platform waved the driver to proceed and we were off.

The family was lucky - it would have been a bigger problem had the little girl been injured if she was caught in between the doors. What was not so lucky, was the Buckingham Palace gift shop bag. As they checked inside the bag, I heard a wail and out came a very squashed Queen's Crown. It had been mashed in half and it was a crown no longer, but more a flat origami balloon. Remember those origami paper balloons you folded up and then blew it up? Well, that's what it resembled.

I very unkindly stifled a laugh and let karma take its toll.

I missed 2 trains home that evening.

the river and the trail

The object of the trip was to find a sign with the words "River Taff" and then be happy ever after, but it was not to be. Instead I found not only a River Taff, but also Taffs Trail, Taff St and Taffs Well. I know. I'm an incredibly popular person. Although, I was most unobliged when the street directory didn't yield a Taffy steet or avenue - the outrage! the Welsh have chopped a fifth of my identity off.

Back to the weekend. My fellow Londoners have been banging on about how good the weather was on the weekend as if they have never seen more than 48 hours of continuous good weather.

Gasps and silence.

I must say however, that the trip to Cardiff last weekend was made all the better with the incredible sunlight and the rather friendly Welsh people (although their bus drivers are a bit erratic and drive with the doors open). Upon arrival at Cardiff and looking at the map, my flatmate, Vicki and I made a plan of attack of how we wanted to traverse Cardiff. Within 10 minutes we had passed 6 of the sights (and even stopped by the visitor centre) and found ourselves at the very pretty Cardiff Castle. This was my first castle and it was exciting to take pictures of the flag at the top of the turret and peer into the rather shallow moat. Upon looking at the moat I considered a takeover of the castle, but reconsidered when I deemed the water lillies too pretty to destroy should I attempt to slosh through in the muddy, algae-infested, mosquito-breeding waters.

Vicki's several attempts at taking self-shots of the castle in the background was met by my derision when I walked to the best vantage point, faced the camera and shot myself (ah, the joys of the English language). Perfect. Castle in background, no huge expanse of sky in the background, my face not fuzzy and missing an ear.

We did a tour too. Very interesting, and mind-boggling to think about how much money these horse-and-cart-riding, wine-guzzling, jousting, sword-waving toffs had. At one stage of the tour, the guide pointed out some Australian animals that were carved into the elaborate ceiling and asked whether there were any Aussies in the crowd. Three hands went up. Neither of those hands belonged to blonde, blue-eyed, surfer types but three, short, glasses-wearing, intellectual-type Asians. The silent, astonished blinking at the 3 of us lasted a good 2 seconds before the guide recovered (very well, I might add) and continued on his spiel.

Later that evening we went back to the hotel for a swim (having decided to pay an extra 5 more pounds per person to avoid the cramped hostel) and dinner at the Wharf which was clearly the happening place in town. It was obvious that Melbourne had tried to copy this concept for its own Docklands, but the sheer buzz and noise of the Cardiff nightlife would have made John Batman turn in his grave while the smokers congregated outside on the footpath.

The next day we took the bus to the outskirts of Cardiff to see another castle, which the promotional leaflet said looked more like a castle belonging at Disneyland or Bavaria then in stuffy old Great Britain. It was a very cute castle and would make for a nice place to have your wedding photos taken. Not that I am getting married, but there's a tip for you anyhow.

So it's back to London for now and thinking about where to go next. Last Friday Vicki and I did a tour of the Houses of Parliament which was fantastic (well, for me, given my interest in all things politics). The absolute highlight was actually going into the House of Lords and House of Commons where we were allowed to walk into the benches where the Members of Parliament sat, but not allowed to sit. Strange, but I guess logical as we were technically "strangers in the house". There was a statue of Winston Churchill with a worn-out foot - when Conservative MPs make their maiden speech, they touch Churchill's foot as they enter the Chamber for good luck. I was standing next to a bronze statue of the iron lady herself, Margaret Thatcher, but thought it most discourteous to do anything but nod in reverence at the lifeless hunk of bronze of Britain's first female Prime Minister.

Walking through the Palace of Westminster made me feel a twinge of sadness as I do miss keeping up with the political scene at home, but to compensate I broke my own rules about not spending money at giftshops and bought a House of Commons bookmark and some House of Lords coasters. Yay!

But for now it's back to reading a report on Court referred and court linked mediation under judicial pressure.

the sunshine

According to my colleagues, summer has finally hit london - and boy can we see it. I wandered down to Greenwich last weekend with my flatmate and my friend from Melbourne, Vicki where we checked out the Maritime Museum (worth visiting, if only to see the actual portrait of Captain James Cook) and the Royal Observatory Building where we got a picture of me with my feet smack back in the middle of Prime Meridian Time. But back to the sunshine. It was unbelievable walking through the (admittedly very pretty) park where women were clad only in bikinis, men were playing frisbee shirtless and children in their nappies running around. All that was missing was a "big swell, mate". I have since been told that this is a perfectly natural reaction from the British, who at the first sign of a glimmer of sun, fire up the barbecues and apply the sunscreen.

It's been a pretty busy week at the flat, described by Vicki as "gorgeous", although I'm sure she was referring to the view of the sunset from our place, rather than the empty fridge, the messy kitchen and pile of clothes inhabiting the entrance to my bedroom. My cousin from Leeds also wandered down to London, so it was nice to enjoy some company, and for someone to cook for me for a change! I managed to impress my temporary flatmates with my rendition of chicken and tomato-based pasta sauce with green beans, potatoes, olives and fresh rocket - and am now perfecting this dish for when I manage to meet a "special" person worthy enough for me to cook for. Heh.

On the whole, so far, so good. London is an incredibly dynamic city ('cept the trains which always have "severe" delays). One afternoon I went to the theatre to watch a play about the election of Pope John Paul and all the politics of the conclave - heady, interesting stuff for which I am richer for the experience. Prior to the show I was waiting for my flatmate and her friends from Australia and along came a parade celebrating the independence of Pakistan 60 years ago, all complete with a British Marching Band to start it off. Later that evening while sitting in my flat, I heard an enormous explosion and raced to the balcony of my flat to see "what the HELL was that?" - only to find myself watching an incredible fireworks display that was happening in our apartment compound! It was so loud I had to cover my ears, and not squeal like a girl.

I guess I should mention that the area which we live is a site which is being re-developed. It was the former site for the Ministry of Defence and the site of the Royal Arsenal where they stored munitions. It's apparently an up-and-coming area, and I guess this fact was underlined when the Tour de France race went through our street a few weeks ago. One Saturday morning we literally walked outside our flat to the street where we watched the cyclists roar past within 20 seconds. We blinked the dust from our eyes, and was promptly back in our flat within a minute, having a cup of tea.

I must be turning British.

the hidden

It's always interesting where work can take you - people will cry out: opportunities! overseas travel! laptops! free dental care! - but it was a pretty safe bet that I would never have pictured myself standing in a solitary holding cell in prison on one Friday morning.

As part of the research we are doing on a large piece of policy, we were sent off to a prison to meet and greet staff at a young offender's prison outside of London. It was one of the most interesting sticky-beak experiences that I have had, and because we were on government business, we had a chance to view some of the cells and more secure areas of the prison. Surprisingly (and yes, I did flinch), we mingled with some of the young offenders (the majority of them under 21) while they were being served lunch, and I was shocked to see how baby-faced some of them looked. The atmosphere inside the open areas of the prison was more akin to a school camp (a good thing for rehabilitation and for breaking down barriers) and I sometimes forgot that we were actually in a prison and that there was a reason why the young men were locked inside.

I was impressed with the work that the staff did too - many of the young men have obviously come from harsh backgrounds, and the sheer work the prison managers do to reduce the chance of the young men from re-offending once they are released is phenomenal. I won't give more details, but in such an environment, I can't help but think that the prison managers deserve gold medals for the work they do in handling very very difficult and sad cases.

But of course, all good things must come to and end, but in my case, the good things merely continued the next day as I flew off to Barcelona to meet Di and Matt who were on a European holiday.

Barcelona is a beautiful city, pity about the lack of customer service and the (mostly) unfriendly people. I don't know whether the Spaniards were tired of hoardes of Englishmen descending on their shores every August, but there were times where I wondered whether Barcelona deserved the acclaim that it sprouted in every Lonely Planet guide published since 1992.

We had sangria, we had tapas, we even had a siesta. What we didn't realise was that siestas weren't just an afternoon occurrence - they happened all the time. On 2 separate occasions, our bus, full of passengers, stopped in the middle of nowhere where the driver had a cigarette break and a conversation on his mobile. Another time I stood waiting to get served my food while the staff talked amongst themselves. At a burger outlet, 4 staff waited around while 1 person served a line of 15 people. When we asked people for directions the best we got was a shrug. It was then that I wished for the brutal, cold efficiency of the Austrians!

But I digress.

The architecture was stunning and the weather was perfect. We went to a lookout point and swam in the blue blue waters of the Mediterranean with our eyes. At night we danced away at a huge club with 4 levels and go completely lost amidst the beat of Spanish pop. We marvelled at the Gaudi sculptures in a UNESCO heritage park, only for me to run away in embarrassment when a mainland Chinese tourist stood on top of a UNESCO Heritage Sculpture while yelling at his wife to take a picture. We ate tapas which was priced according to how long the toothpick which held the tapas together was, we got slightly tipsy on sangria (ok, i lie, I got mega-drunk on sangria), strolled down Las Ramblas and then we got sunburnt.

So now I'm reasonably up to date, and now that i have the internet at home (which incidentally keeps on disconnecting every 10 seconds - literally - I should be able to update the blog somewhat in real time. Not that you read this in "somewhat real time" but meh, them's the break.

the record

This is going to be my pre-Barcelona post, given my lack of updates for the past couple of weeks.

I have nicely settled into my new abode and am really starting the enjoy the flat. I cook, I clean, I iron, I wash. But at the end of the long working day, it's nice to sit back and look at the views of the city and watch the commuter ferry dock outside my flat. The only problem is that my landlord has stuffed up the measurements for my balcony curtains, so the 19.10, the 19.40 and the 21.10 commuter ferry passengers coming off the gangway can see me scoffing icecream (19.10), burning my dinner (19.40) and hiding the empty bottle of wine (the 21.10 mob) as I sit in my flat in my best tracksuit pants.

But aside from that, I've also managed to get out of the flat too.

Visited the Millennium Dome. Enough said. Enjoyed the best of British planning at the local square where some Ghanian (or Senagalese or Namibian or some African nation) festival was on - in the middle of a construction zone. There was a lovely Ghanian singer crooning to some African pop, but all I could hear was lalala-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-laalaaalaa-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG-GLUNG. I applauded the jackhammers, threw roses and ran.

The National Portrait Gallery has now overtaken the Museum of Modern Art in New York as my favourite museum. I spent a few good hours on a rainy Sunday afternoon browsing through a display of black and white photo-journal of the Blair Prime Ministership during the period just where Prime Minister Blair made the decision to go to war. It was touching and distressing at the same time to see their furrowed faces etched deep in the photo forever, about to make a decision that would cost countless military and civilian lives.

I've received some emails from you lot complaining how cold it is in Melbourne. If I didn't live on the wrong side of Greenwich Mean Time (and yes, the actual place where they measure GMT is about a 10 minute train ride from my place), I would shout from the rooftops that you aint seen cold yet. Let me tell you: it's the middle of summer and the English are abandoning ship for Spain, and this morning I wore my WINTER jacket to work.

Now that I've got internet access at home I can stop lining up at the local library to get my free 15 minutes of internet access. All complaints about my lack of blog updates may be directed to the British Civil Service whose government secure internet ensures that I don't while away my time updating the status on my facebook.

For the record:

Taffy is: drinking tea.

And a postscript to my previous blog: I did manage to meet the Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State for Justice the other week. I was so nervous that I fluffed my rehearsed lines and he shuffled away, with note to self that those lax immigration laws need to be changed.

the fireworks

It feels weird, that even after moving in to my new flat that sometimes all i want to do is crawl into my comfy bed at home (in Melbourne) and just sleep and read a book and eat chocolate.

But I'm glad to say that I've finally unpacked, opened the windows for fresh air, filled up my side of the cupboard with food and even lugged an ironing board all the way from the Isle of Dogs to Woolwich.

Despite the several trips back and forth moving stuff (much of the odds and ends very kindly donated by my old flatmate in the Isle of Dogs who was also moving out the same day as I was - she is on to bigger and better things in Beijing with a new job), i've managed to set up base. Then the fun begins when you realise you have a tin of soup you want to heat up for lunch, yet have no can opener. Or that you have no hand towels for the kitchen.

I went slightly insane at the supermarket buying stuff for our new flat - i eventually had to be reined in by my new flatmate, Frances. Our very first step was to buy a aerial for the TV, rearrange the furniture in the living area (and then rearrange everything back the way it was originally after discovering that our arrangement was NQR (not quite right). And then putting the finishing touches with a footrest and a stool in between our chairs! We both slumped down and almost fell asleep, only for both of us having to go back to our old places to pick up more stuff.

As Frances decided to stay in her old place for one last night, i had the place to myself which was great, except for the fact that we don't have curtains yet and that everyone going past on the Thames can see me standing in the kitchen with my old trackies on. For some reason there were fireworks on in the city centre, and our place had great views of the fireworks! It was so exciting that I felt that the fireworks were put on especially for me.

I'm off to organise a phone and set up the ironing board. Back to work tomorrow, but all I can finally say is:

Land in London: check.
Get a job: check.
Find a flat: check.
Get out there!: pending.

Update pending. Catch you later.

the new and old

Currently sitting outside a library in Canary Wharf using the free wireless as they just closed. If they turn off the wireless I am screwed!

I'm quickly updating this blog as I've had email requests to let everyone know how i'm going, but as I need to shop for an iron tonight and some cutlery too, I thought this would be a better way of keeping everyone happy.

Work is getting quite interesting. With the Cabinet reshuffle we have a new Lord Chancellor and Secretary of State for Justice - the Right Hon. Jack Straw whose earlier claim to fame was his post at Foreign Affairs. He apparently did a meet and greet at the office today which would have been exciting, save for the fact I was out of the office in the depths of London watching an Employment Tribunal to do some research for the project I am on. On my tour of duty around the department it's a constant meet and greet and an explanation that I am not a New Zealander - apparently my accent is too clean-cut to be an Australian! Though, a couple of people have picked it up - they specifically ask if I am from Melbourne, which is a tad scary.

I'm not sure how fast news travels, but there has been a terrorist scare in central London - a car packed with bombs was parked in central London last night. Rest assured that I am safe, and that London is safe for the moment, although the Ministry of Justice screens in the lobby were advising of the heightened alert, and would we please allow our bags to be searched if asked.

Other news to hand is that I am definitely moving to Woolwich tomorrow, so as of tomorrow night I won't have email access until i set up my phone line and broadband. And what a pity i can't celebrate the fact that I finally can sleep in a proper bed! This will certainly be a watershed moment for my life in London so far.

Will also lose my TV until i get the TV license set up too - which is sad. For some reason i have been quite enjoying watching British advertisements - there is a great Voda ad (sorry Telstra people) that uses the song from an old Disney cartoon which is really cool - the song goes "drip drip drop little april shower"... i should google it to see where it comes from. But it brings back memories for sure.

On a final note, met a great person yesterday through my contacts in London. Kerry, the gentleman I met yesterday for a coffee worked at the Leo Burnett advertising agency for 40 plus years and gave me some advice on getting through the London work culture. His 2 pieces of advice were "you don't learn when you are talking" and that "if you're going to get anywhere in life you have to walk towards the fire" (or words to that effect, i can;t remember the exact quote. perhaps someone can enlighten me). I guess I am just rambling now...

Keep posted for the next instalment of the set up of Taffy and Frances' pad. (almost wrote bachelor pad, but it aint!)

the moral of the story

The whirlwind continues.

As my soon-to-be-flatmate put on her blog, we both think we're idiots for doing 2 of the top 4 most stressful things in life within a matter of weeks - i.e. starting a new job and moving house. Started work at the Ministry of Justice in the Strategy Development and Projects Directorate working on improving public access to justice services and Her Majesty's Courts Service. It's early days yet, and as I come to terms with being a British Civil Servant i'll let you know how i get along!

Big day in British politics today though, with the departure of Tony Blair and the arrival of Gordon Brown on the scene. With the announcement of his Cabinet we'll soon see his priorities and whether the Ministry of Justice gets a new boss and/or direction.

On the home front I put a deposit on my new flat in Woolwich today. I'll hopefully be moving out this weekend from the Isle of Dogs to even further out South-East London, and i'll spend most of the weekend sorting out cutlery, ironing boards, duvets and a bath mat. So with that in mind, once I sort out everything i'll be open for visitors!

I am excited though to finally get my own space. While the apartment is a trek from central London, we've got stunning views of the Thames and Canary Wharf as we were lucky enough to find this place as it just came on the market. I've come to an agreement with my flatmate that i won't get the master bedroom, but the great thing is that the place isn't a shoebox so there is plenty of space to move around - and to unroll your sleeping bags :)

I'm not going to go into how much of a pain renting a place is, only because i don't want to burn out my fingers complaining about it...

Went to see a West End show the other night - "Avenue Q". I laughed so hard i wet myself. With tears. If you ever want to see an adults-version of Muppets - this is it - complete with a busty-blonde muppet. The story is essentially about a young preppy guy with an arts degree who finds himself in a new city (New York), looking for work and an apartment and making new friends and trying to find out what he wants to do in life.

HMMMMMMMMMMMM.

That sure does ring a bell.

But what I most liked about the show was the moral of the story - to live for the moment, to not be worried about the small things as things will always change. And to always be open to the possibilities of life while searching for whatever it is you are searching for.

Which in my case, is a decent haircut.

the MoJ

Being Chinese is definitely in.

We scrimp, we save, we bargain, we look for "value for money" (which really means something is hideously expensive, but we still are going to buy it anyway). So in a place as expensive as London, living on savings worth less than a penny for your thoughts (i.e. Australian dollars), looking for a decent job has been a big priority.

For the past couple of weeks I've been a little bit worried that I would never find a job. In typing out countless cover letters I have now memorised key phrases from my CV - only to find myself repeating them in my sleep. My flatmate, whose room is a few metres away from the bit of floor that I have holed out for myself in the lounge room, must think I am going insane.

But i digress.

Got called in by a recruitment agency for a public sector job and submitted my cover letter and references and everything. Two days later (i.e. today) I went to the interview at 3.30, and was offered the job at 4.30 and accepted at 5pm. Only to get another call at 5.01pm for an interview at a different government department.

So I'm relieved and happy to finally be gainfully employed. In looking for flats I always get looked at suspiciously when I tell the real estate agents that I am looking for work. But now I will be working as a Project Officer with the Ministry of Justice - affectionately known as "the MoJ". They wanted me to start tomorrow, but I'll start on Monday (today being Thursday) as I wanted to take a couple of days off without having to write cover letters and search for jobs while sitting in a public library.

Time for an ASDA pre-cooked meal. And a bottle of wine (celebration ABC (Aust born Chinese) style - spend more money on the alcohol rather than the cheap pre-packaged meal).

the hunt

So it's been a couple of weeks since arriving in London, and while the hard work of finding a decent job and decent house (within my price range, and within greater London!) continues, I feel more and more like a Londoner. I give my famous black looks at those who stand on the left hand side on the underground escalators, overtake slow tourists on the footpaths and don't feel that being told to "mind the gap" over and over and over again is hilarious. For those who laugh *will* fall through those enormous gaps between the train and the platform on the Central line one of these days.

But enough of bagging out tourists.

I have been preparing for interviews and I've been researching typical interview questions such as what are your weaknesses blah blah blah. I came across one with "if you were an animal what would you be", and have since decided that I really must restrain myself from saying the following:

"Under the Chinese zodiac, I am a Cock".

But let us put frivolity aside.

My first proper outing in the UK was spent up north in Leeds with its pretty green hills, opium (erm, poppy) fields and hoodlum youths. There has been major flooding in the UK, and my train line going north was affected. I was forced to change trains in Doncaster (funny that, well, not ha-ha funny, it's just that I grew up in Doncaster, Melbourne) and it was pandemonium. I heard someone scream "Leeds on platform 5" so off I ran, discovering that I had taken the slow, local train by accident rather than the express connection for which I had paid 20 pounds for. I was then treated to a wonderful show, and managed to buy the commemorative CD during my hour journey. Famous hits included "Darren, will you f-ing stop being such a m***** f*****", "she's a f-ing sl**** wh***", and my personal favourite, "Did you hear that troll Belinda is pregnant at 16". Subtitles were available, but only in spittle-coating-the-windows format.

I did however have a really nice weekend wandering around an old English town and having a proper English afternoon tea with smoked salmon sandwiches, scones and cream, a cup of tea and a raspberry tart. I momentarily lost my English sense of decorum and rolled up an unfinished brownie into a napkin to take back with me on the train.

The house hunt continues - I have an eye on a place in Woolwich which is quite far out. I guess it would be like living out in Caroline Springs in Melbourne, but with muggings as a complimentary extra. Found a great place in Acton which was decidedly outside my budget, so the hunt continues. Ah well.

the start of something... good?

I suppose the panic really started on the night before my departure when I couldn't close my overflowing suitcase, despite my dad and brother sitting on top of the suitcase, my sister ready to close the locks while I stood there, wringing my hands, all the while my mum continued to roll up even more clothes to fit inside my other backpack.

So despite the best efforts of me trying to pack lightly (coughs), it was by sheer luck that I managed to get away with not paying an excess baggage fine, only to find that sheer luck whisked away when I discovered that I had mistakenly packed my lucky scissors (circa Grade 5 at school) into my carry-on baggage. These small blunt scissors were let through at Melbourne airport by a kind security officer who heard all my school stories, and were almost let though at Sydney airport by another kind security officer, only for some fat ugly paunchy man without a heart to take them away without bothering to look into my pleading eyes.

My bad, I guess.

But here I am in London town. I've felt reasonably cut off from the world so far without access to the internet (which would explain my complete silence back home to Australia, so apologies), and with the sun rising at 4 bloody AM, i've been surviving on 4 hours of sleep a night. Dossing rules (i.e. rules for sleeping on someone else's floor) means that I go to bed when my flatmate goes to bed when she has finished watching TV, and I get up when the sun gets up due to the lack of curtains in the lounge where I am currently camping out.

Speaking of my camp. I am based in the East near Canary Wharf. For those in the know, Canary Wharf is apparently an up-and-coming business area which is busy during the working day, but dead during the night. But to my disappointment, I was further away from the hip Canary Wharf than I realised, and instead am staying in a place called "Isle of Dogs" which in truth sounds more depressing than it actually is.

Job hunting has been a bit painful, but I'm hoping that the agencies might be able to help me out and I'm only starting to go house-hunting today. I'm hoping that the sooner I find a space of my own that i'll feel more settled, and also, find a place with a shower which the place i'm staying at doesn't have. The "shower" that has been set up is actually a hose connected to the hot/cold taps and you have to kneel in the bath so that it can reach over your head.

I miss my shower at home.