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.
Saturday, 29 September 2007
Monday, 24 September 2007
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.
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.
Friday, 21 September 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, 15 September 2007
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!)
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.
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.
Friday, 7 September 2007
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 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.
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