the interminable delays

I am currently stuck in Chicago airport waiting for my connection to Toronto. It is humid and hot, it is slightly chaotic here, although most of the officials and airport staff have been friendly so far. I find it strange to think that this morning I left London and now sometime in the middle of the morning London time, I am on the other side of the Atlantic in a country with a culture that is so different from the UK. From one English-speaking nation to another, I find myself having to make some rapid changes to my psyche to fit into the crowd. For instance, saying "sir" to everyone, and tipping at the bar. In the heat, I got a bottle of water and was charged 2 dollars. Despite the price, I gave the man 3 dollars, and then waved away the change as a tip. I have been told that I need to tip a dollar per drink, and I don't know whether I have been had. The bartender seemed appreciate though. Well, I would be too with a dollar tip just for getting out a bottle of water.

I am hoping that things will get better after July gave me two fingers up. There was a small incident with a fly infestation in my flat. After recovering from a mild bout of flu, I found myself spraying insect killer until I lost my sense of smell, vacuumed up flies that had dropped dead all over flat floor, mopped until my floorboards bled, and thought that the buzzing from my fridge was one enormous mother-ship fly coming to get me after wiping out the entire population of flies in my flat. At one point (i.e. the point of nervous breakdown), I had thoughts of just lighting a match of where I had sprayed insect spray and just letting it rip. Common sense prevailed after spending a nice afternoon out of the flat drinking coffee somewhere in a nice cafe in the West End.

To add to my woes was my continuing wait for my initial visa to come through. Having heard that the process was going to take 14 weeks for the first part, I was getting anxious that I would be home in Melbourne and nothing would have been approved. I still think that's going to be the case, but I guess I can't do much about it except curse the slowness of the Home Office. My misery was also compounded by my complete apathy in getting things done. Lists were made and the flesh was willing, but the spirit was weak as I sat there stewing in my humid flat.

However, there were some good days. One sunny afternoon I had finally persuaded Rob to join me for a drink at a Walkie (the Walkabout Pub which is a pub for Australians). Travelling down to Putney, I was again amazed at how nice some parts of London are. With the Thames as a backdrop, it was Woolwich without the grime and the attitude. Except it seemed that I had moved into New South Wales. Our first pint went down a treat, and we knew things would only get worse when we started on the 2-for-1 Snakebites (some concocted English drink for Australians consisting of beer, cider and something purple coloured). The Snakebites were surprisingly good, and we ended up staying for a couple more pints and a very cheap meal deal. It was a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon, although we did wonder whether we were enjoying the guitar-playing singer too much, whose repertoire consisted of mainly vanilla anthems heard in every pub from Putney to maybe Putney.

Drinking clearly was my salvation another night when I met up Roxy for a few very expensive cocktails in London's West End. Rox was attending someone else's birthday drinks, and I was merely a gatecrasher to a meeting of the entire Asian Monash-or-Melbourne-University-student Melbourne community. While it was oddly reassuring to be surrounded with people that looked and spoke like me, they were all disbelieving when I told the group that I was "full Honky" when we went off for a very late supper in Chinatown. I believe the words "you can't be full Chinese because you have a hairy chest" were used. Yes indeed, because I am man. Hear me exfoliate.

After supper, I went back to Trafalgar Square to get the night bus home. After waiting an hour I was getting very fidgety and anxious that I would never get home. Some people around me started to complain about the mystery number 53 bus to Woolwich, and I told them that I had been waiting for an hour. Eventually a group of us decided to get a minicab to Woolwich - I was lucky - and saved. It was amusing in the cab, 2 French bartenders, 2 Romanian dentists, me and a rather cold New Zealand girl in a dress which was probably meant to be an ocean motif, but looked like something that had gone mouldy and had started to spore. Two hours later I eventually made it home, and I was thankful that I had only spent 10 pounds for a shared minicab rather than 60 pounds for a black cab.

Let me pause here for one moment to announce that my flight is delayed for 3 hours. Despite having changed to arrive in Chicago earlier from London so that I would have no problem getting my connecting flight, I will be enjoying the ambience of O'Hare airport for a good 6 hours. I hope my sarcasm is dropping. My dad, aunt, uncle and Rob laughed at me when they found out I was flying American Airlines. Ha ha. Hilarious.

In my last few days in London, I decided to do some London touristy sightseeing with Rob. Rob is leaving London in September, leaving me without a comedy-night wingman where we would laugh at the same jokes about a bear going "rawr" and a song going "Valerie Valerie". Clearly an inside joke. We have been to some good comedy nights though - our tried and tested formula for a good night out. A couple of pints to loosen the heckling vocal chords, and then off we would go. This last outing however, was my own idea in dragging Rob out to see a Frank Gehry architectural installation. The Serpentine Gallery in Kensington Gardens has a temporary installation each year, and this year Frank Gehry had designed a large wooden structure reminiscent of Leonardo da Vinci's drawings for an enormous catapult. Unfortunately I was a little bit disappointed with the structure after reading a glowing review in the papers, but nevertheless I was pleased to see another Frank Gehry building. By chance, I noticed that the Princess Diana fountain was close by, so we went to have a quick look to see what the fuss was about. While undoubtedly tasteful and lovely, I would find it hard to justify taking time out of my tourist schedule to actually come out and look at the fountain. It was nice however that the water was clean, and kids were dipping their toes into the currents of water.

Walking back through Kensington Park, we reminisced about our family outings to Gumbaya Park and Wobbie's World. Our experiences at these places were eerily similar - our complaints that Gumbaya Park wasn't Dreamworld in Queensland, our dads complained about the fact that the rides were an additional cost on top of the admission fee, and were were given cans of Coke to share with our siblings after begging for fizzy sugary drinks.

We decided to go for a pub lunch and took the first bus we saw away from Kensington Gardens. I usually don't take random buses in London but it the spirit of being intrepid, we ended up taking a bus to Victoria - literally down the road. We had a nice pub lunch with rather incompetent bar staff, and I bade my farewell to Rob. I spent the next day packing, and here I am. Sitting in a very quiet Chicago airport, bored, but at least with my laptop and something to do. Given that we were already delayed in London for an hour due to congestion at Heathrow, I'm rather nervous as I've got a long way to go. Two airlines down, 3 more airlines to go. Perhaps once August clicks in all will be fine.

It's time to fly. Exclamation mark.

the headache to Leeds

I'm currently growing a lovely headache by being a true Chinese and using the free Wi-fi on the train from London to Leeds. I've taken my laptop with me, and it just seems a shame (or more likely a waste and an affront to my Asian senses) not to capitalise on the freebie so I can send emails and download tracks. I suppose however that any cost benefit on this trip will be neutralised in the outrageous cost of the ticket and the panadol tablets that I will need to consume later.

I finished with the NHS Counter Fraud Service last week. I was a little sad as I felt that I had started to make inroads - of getting to know people and of starting to get good at my job. My final task was to release the report I had been working on for the past 5 months - it will be launched as a national document for best practice, and I'm pretty proud of the work that I've done. The task before that was slightly less happy - I did my final assessment of a hospital's counter fraud arrangements, and awarded a provisional fail mark.

Happy days indeed.

I'm sure many of you are aware that I've booked my round-the-world ticket from London to North America and Australia. I'll be seeing my sister who has just moved to Toronto, and then will be spending a couple of days in the Bay Area of San Francisco. I'm a bit of an old hand now at the Caltrain - it's a great journey down the Silicon Valley heading past famous places such as Menlo Park where Thomas Edison lived. From there I'll fly out from San Jose to Denver where I'll be heading to a family reunion. From there we'll be driving through Utah and then heading back to LA for my flight home back to Australia.

I would hereby like to announce that my headache is in a holding pattern and heasn't decided whether to emerge or not... And that the man sitting opposite me (despite me requesting a non-table seat) is chewing gum in a most annoying fashion.

I can't concentrate any more, except to say that a party that David held a couple of weeks ago, I managed to make an entire room of PhD physicists and PhD art historians laugh, spilt red wine on my only nice polo top, and drunkenly agreed to read a book about art so that I would feel superior to everyone in the galleries I visited with my knowledge on art. Though, I must say that I am currently a bit bored of seeing countless depictions of the last supper, the resurrection of Christ and the birth of Christ.

If anyone can show me a good collection of finger paintings, then I am sold.

the first year of something good

I made it.

One year ago today, I arrived in London with my bags and a piece of paper with an address. All I remember are the anxieties about being in a new city being completely alone, having to rely solely on my wits and my powers of being completely anal and anal retentive at the same time.

This time one year ago I was walking back to my first flatmate's home in the Isle of Dogs near Crossharbour, jet-lagged out of my mind, wanting sleep, worrying about finding a job and a new apartment.

I'll be the first to admit that it was one of the most stressful things I've ever done in my life, but here I am, sitting in my flat in Woolwich looking at the sunset setting over the Thames. I've cooked and eaten dinner (stir-fried chicken on a bed of salad - yes - the rabbit eats) and I'm feeling relaxed yet rather tired. My sinuses are rather clogged up, and I'm debating whether I have a cold or just a severe bout of hayfever. The Erica Yurken from "Hating Alison Ashley" lives on inside me.

So what have I achieved? Allowing myself to be wildly self-indulgent, it's been a year of some good trips - Barcelona with Di and Matt, trips with Frances through Salzburg and England, Cardiff with Vicki, Paris with my dad and sister, Budapest with Alex and Dave, and of course, branching out on my two little feet with trips to Dublin and Madrid. Vicki, Nick and Viviane, thanks for stopping by on my brown faux-suede couch.

Most of all, I'm proud that I've managed to resurrect a good career post-Telstra. Within a year, I've done a 360 on my career, moving from the cushy private sector into being a full blown civil servant. The civil service of course has its one perk, I tend to get questioned less by the UK BORDER authorities when I tell them I work for the Ministry of Justice or the NHS Counter Fraud Service. I've managed to work my way up from being a lowly researcher to a position where I now make decisions that impact on the healthcare that is provided in England and Wales. Having said that, I have had some fun at Justice visiting prisons and the like, investigating cases of misconduct and impropriety at the Health Professions Council and assessing whether a hospital's counter fraud arrangements are passing or failing Secretary of State directions. It's all part of the service.

Of course, my blog notes often present a rosy picture. There are the days when I miss being home, being in Melbourne with my friends and my family. It's bloody hard work trying to break into new friendship groups, having to take contract work with the constant stress of not wanting to be sick lest I miss a day of paid work, missing the last train home at midnight and having to take the horrendous night bus home, paying exorbitant rent and travel costs and the rather shitty food.

But miseries aside, it's been a good year. I have, after all, managed to find myself a flat with a proper shower.

the lucky dip

I am feeling slightly old and weary today after turning 27 years old yesterday. My birthday passed without fanfare or fuss – it was a normal day at work for me, although I did treat myself to a nicer lunch than I would ordinarily buy, and for dinner I allowed myself to guzzle larger quantities of icecream and Chardonnay than I would ordinarily allow myself. It was also, the first time in my flat where I didn’t wash the dishes after cooking dinner, leaving them piled high in the sink, looking forlorn and unloved. It was also the first time that I had had a birthday in which I celebrated by myself, although it was no big deal. Frances did cook me a roast chicken over the weekend for my birthday dinner, and bought me a small plant for the flat which was very cute. And I managed to speak to my family and friends over the phone last night, and received all your lovely emails.

In the lead up to my birthday, I took some time off to go to Madrid for some time off and to sort out my visa to stay in the UK. Arriving in Madrid I was slightly nervous – I was ultra paranoid from reading about pickpockets and bag snatchers and bag slashers, and I was a little bit rusty on solo travel. But travelling into the centre of Madrid on the speedy metro, I felt this amazing rush of excitement. I usually only get this feeling when I first arrive in a new city – a whole city to be explored with its possibilities open to me, and it never fails to remind me why I pick myself from my bed and hurl myself into the unknown.

That first afternoon, I decided to take the hostel tour to meet new people and to gain my footing in a new city. It was nice being lazy for a couple of hours to have someone show us around, without the need for me to be the unwitting participant in Madrid’s “spot the incompetent tourist” charade. In between my bewilderment wondering whether Spaniards ever did any work through their hours-long siestas, I appreciated the gravitas of history that surely gave the Madrilenos their confidence. From the influences of the Moorish people, the Austrians and then the Muslims, Jews and Christians, you knew that the weight of these influences was enough to give the city its much deserved gravitas. While not having much of Barcelona’s gaudy excesses (pun intended), I came to see Madrid as a bastion of neo-classical architecture and preservation on another tour of Madrid outdoor art and architecture.

That night I had dinner with 2 people from the tour – a South Korean girl and a Brazilian guy who had never seen snow in his life. Both were very nice and sweet, although I clearly needed practice in speaking pidgin English. Out went my syntax and any form of eloquent expression until I returned to my hostel room to meet my new roommates. Shawn, an Aussie from Canberra was affable and we had a good chat. Shawn warned me that the South Korean guy in our room was “up for a chat” but didn’t elaborate, until it dawned upon me that a conversation of any complexity was going to involve elaborate hand signals and
v-e-r-y s-l-o-w s-p-e-a-k-i-n-g. It was all good natured of course, and both guys raved about how good Seville was.

The next morning, I went with Shaun to the train station to purchase our tickets – Shaun was off to Cordoba and I was going to take a day-trip to Toledo the next day. We waited for an hour to get my tickets, and was accosted by a little old lady shouting at me to donate money to her cause. A few people started to laugh and I had to pretend to laugh at myself, but inwardly seethed listening to a Spanish rant about elderly women or whatever the cause was. Having got our tickets, Shawn and I decided to head to the Sofia modern art museum. Along the way, I got both of us horribly lost, only to be saved by a very bizarre American man who gave us booklets on the Bible and thanked us Australians for saving American in the World Wars.

The modern art gallery was primarily famous for Picasso’s “Guernica” cubism painting. I myself wasn’t sure to look out for, but it was nice to walk around the gallery to talk about the collection to a guy who was neither here nor there about art. We passed a painting where people crowded around and appreciated it for a while, and then kept going. I realised that while I liked flying solo at art galleries, there was something very cathartic in being able to share your opinion on a particular piece. While our eloquence extended sometimes no more than “that’s shit”, or “that’s crap”, or “how bizarre”, I had a lot of fun. We ended up liking different works, and then found the “Guernica” – the painting which we had admired before, but not realised that it was in fact, the famous piece. We stood there for a while to get our money’s worth and wandered around looking at some other famous painters like Salvador Dali.

I bade farewell to Shawn and went back to the hostel for a rest. I met a new roommate, “Jeff from Salt Lake City, Utah” and unfortunately, he misheard my name and called me “Tiff” for the rest of the week. Jeff turned out to be a college jock Mormon who was quite possibly one of the most coolest and nicest ultra-religious people I have ever met. He liked sports, girls and God and we had a great chat. I was going to have an early night to get up for Toledo the next day, so Jeff leant me his PSP to watch movies while he went out. I couldn’t believe how trusting he was, and told him that he was lucky I was an honest bloke. I don’t know what it is, but he is the second person in a month to say that I had a “trustworthy face”. I’m sure I would have been damned to hell and whatever Prophet the Mormons believed in had I run away with his PSP.

I then lucked out with roommates. Three very large American guys came in with enormous suitcases. They took forever in getting ready to go out, and then left me in peace to go to sleep. That night, I counted 5 reasons, why I would never ever stay in a hostel again.

1. Jeff and friends came back at 2am. Jeff, being a Mormon, didn’t drink, but his friend clearly had. It was very funny though – Jeff came in quietly, but his friend walked into the side of the door. Amidst the wailing, Jeff was shushing away his friend, telling him that I had woken up his roommate. His friend came up to me and drunkenly said “I’m so sorry Tiff”, and then walked into the door again. Mayhem ensued.
2. At 3am, one large American came back in. Belch and scratch noises pierced the silence.
3. At 3.30, another large American came back in. More belching and scratching. A shower was started.
4. At 4am, other American came in and fell over the pile of their suitcases in middle of room.
5. At 4.30, Jeff returns to room sans drunk (but very funny) friend. Says hello again and asks me what time I’m getting up. Apparently in 3 hours. Asks me to get him up at same time.

The next day, a very grumpy Taffy went off to Toledo. The new high-speed Renfe trains were great. Fast, comfortable and clean, I was deposited into Toledo in 30 minutes. I took the bus into the centre to get a map, but discovered the tourist centre was closed until 11am. I grumbled to myself something about working hours only being between 11am and 1pm.

Toledo, however, is quite a pretty city. For centuries, Jews, Muslims and Christians managed to live together in harmony without their religious faith colliding. They built spectacular cathedrals, temples and synagogues and a thriving community. While I paid to go into the cathedral and synagogue, it was nice to stroll around the rather hilly town, until it started to rain. At one point I got too miserable and wet, and ducked into a restaurant for lunch where they charged me like red flag to a wounded bull for everything. By then I had had enough, and caught an early bus to the train station for the ride home.

That afternoon, I decided to head over the Prado Museum for some classical art. I suppose as well I should admit that I was bored, and that entry was free. The Prado is apparently one of the largest galleries in Europe, and it was surprisingly good. Large spacious galleries held the crowds at bay, and it was possible to enjoy the galleries without jostling for position. After I had had enough of renaissance art, I headed back to the hostel and the little deli close-by for dinner, ordering an enormous slice of Tiramisu for dessert. Jeff was back in the room, and we had a good chat again. I had some many questions about the Mormons, and it turns out that he was sent to Lima for two years to teach. The good thing was that he didn’t ram down his teachings down my throat, and while I disagreed on a couple of things with him, he wasn’t annoyed when I was surprised that he had never drunk alcohol in his life before. Clearly a man of many talents (God-divined perhaps?), he played lacrosse and wrestled at college and also was learning ballroom dancing and Spanish, in addition to teaching for his Church. While I’m not sure of the whole Mormon thing, this was a guy who you would love to hate.

My last day in Madrid was my slow “I could not be bothered and I am on holiday” day, despite my wish to find chocolate con churros (which I never did find). I wandered the main shopping drag of Gran Via, and strolled around the hip Chueca district before going back to visit the Palace and cathedral. The Palace and Cathedral were built very close to each other to symbolise the close relationship between Church and State, although once inside the Palace, I wondered whether any divine inspiration from the interior design. The interior of the Palace, was frankly, hideous. Excessively opulent, dark and over-the-top, I went through the rooms and sometimes just stood there to gape. One memorable room was made entirely of porcelain – apparently very fine and expensive porcelain, but I could helpn’t wonder whether this porcelain encrusted “Reading Room” was more like one big lavatory where you sat on the throne to read while attending to your business. The highlight was to see a collection of Stradivarius string instruments and priceless Chinese Ming vases, presumably gifts, but probably pinched. The Cathedral on the other hand, was stunning inside. I would have to call it as one of the more beautiful cathedrals that I have seen, although the Cathedral exterior facing the Palace was very demure – so as to not offend the Royals.

Back at the hostel, luck in roommates turned my way. I met Tom from Seattle, aged 29. I asked Tom whether he felt old being 29, but his style of travel was similar to mine – take shorter breaks so as not to get too tired of hostels, and only stay in hostels for the sole reason of meeting new people. A little while later after we decided to grab a drink, Chris from Canada who was British but had just moved to Madrid that day entered stage right. We decided to go out on the town that night, and I waited for Tom to clean up the water fountain he created in the bathroom, and then waited for Chris to preen himself for a night out. Both were good guys, and were keen to together a bunch of people. We were rebuffed by everyone sitting at the PCs staring intently at the internet, although another rather loud Aussie called Kat came with us for a drink.

First stop was KFC (God forbid) but following a wander around Puerta del Sol, we managed to find ourselves with a pint. It was nice to chat, and it turns out that the 4 of us had moved quite long distances away from home. Chris and I talked about the deterioration of the UK, and wondered why the Europeans managed to encourage culture, while the UK managed to promote welfare and a gang culture. We shook our heads sadly.

But of course the party continued on. We trooped aimlessly for a while and ended up in the gay part of the town. The boys wanted to go somewhere else, so we walked back along Gran Via, checking out the architecture lit up at night, Chris telling buskers in Spanish to piss off, and laughing and carrying on until we walked back to the hostel at 3am. As I got into the dorm, Jeff woke up and we all had a chat, except for our 5th roommate who hid under his hoodie and then went for a smoke in the bathroom. We were not impressed, so we kept on talking until the early hours of the morning.

It was then that I realised that this was the exact reason why I stay in hostels. To meet weird and wonderful people – people of different religions, people who like talking the language of American politics, people who find nourishment in travel and art and a beer and chat at the end of a long day.

I bade a sad farewell to my roommate amigos early that morning, bringing to mind a conversation I had with Shawn. Shawn had proposed a question whether it was the hostel that made the trip, or the city that made a trip. While a city can be fascinating and exciting, we both came to the conclusion that our travels were enlivened meeting good people at hostels and exploring the city with new mates. Holding that though, I went to breakfast and stirred up the very angry lady in the kitchen who was banging around breakfast plates and cups with a cheery “hola!”. She grimaced at me, and kept on wanting to break plates without daring to break plates in case she got fired. And then I was off to the Airport for the journey home to London where all I could do was collapse in a heap to listen to Frances’ travels to Egypt and gorge on roast chicken.

Bueno.

the travel to the east

I had a most pleasant evening last weekend. Dad was in town for work, and I managed to spend some quality time with him. The highlight of the evening was having a nice dinner with David and Dad, following which we moseyed our way to a performance of The Lion King.

I highly recommend The Lion King - it was a lot of fun. An incredible set, creative use of the stage and some rather nice moments, including the moment when the animals came down the aisles of the stalls. It's been a while since I saw the Lion King at the movies - but bits and pieces of it came back to me during the performance. There was the baboon character who was played by the most amazing singer - she absolutely brought the house down. Even dad was impressed.

Though, I was even more impressed with the past weekend's sunshine - having lived through the longest winter of my life, I appreciate now why Londoners seem to strip everything off in public places such as parks the moment it hits 25 degrees. In fact, one day when it got to about 27 degrees, I was wilting away in my flat. The flat was only 22 degrees inside, but inside we had the fans going, all the windows open and I was still moaning away. Clearly my heat tolerance has taken some adjusting.

A couple of weekends ago I also took the chance to head to Windsor Castle and Eton with Frances. Windsor Castle was a grand old building, although I'm not sure the 45 minute wait in line to get in made it worth it. I suppose it was something that I needed to do while in London - a visit to see where Lizzie lives. I don't think Lizzie in was that day, but we had a gawk at St George's chapel (where we saw where the Queen Mother was buried), someone's Doll Museum (bizarre), and some of the State Rooms. There was excess everywhere - from the swords to the bayonets covering the walls, to the opulence of royalty. Bring on the republic. Though maybe not Napolean.

We also took a stroll around Eton where I must say it was interesting to see where numerous British Prime Ministers were schooled. The courtyard was nothing short of horrendous - jagged rocks, grey concrete and weeds growing in the cracked concrete. I suppose it drags down one spirit so that the little rich kids can concentrate on becoming Britain's future elite.

Speaking of disparity. Heading eastwards from Windsor, our train stopped at several stations including Putney and Clapham - where rudely speaking, all the bogan Australians live in their ghetto. Frances and I noticed that in the "nice" West side of London, the trains were mostly full of caucasian people. Changing at Waterloo back to head to the south east, we found our train entirely full of Asians (i.e Indians) and Africans and assorted other ethnic groups and I felt right at home heading back east in the melting pot of faces. I've always wanted to move somewhere "nicer" in London (i.e. the West), but I wonder if the east holds the key to one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the world?

At this point in time, I suppose here is as good a place to tell everyone that I've decided to stay in London for just a little bit longer. At the start of June, I'll hit 1 year in London, and simply can't imagine packing up my life here to head back to Melbourne. As much as I miss home and my friends and family back in Melbourne, there's still a lot that I want to do in the UK. I've had a couple of sleepless nights thinking my long-term plans, but as I've gone about preparing my Highly Skilled Migrant Visa application, I know that this is the right decision for now.

Unfortunately, there's been a bit of stress with the new Home Office rule changes for my visa, and I'll need to head home for a little bit while the application goes through the British High Commission in Canberra. I'm looking forward to recharging the batteries, seeing you all again, and spending some time in my own bed.

the candidates

Today I had the privilege of fulfilling one of my duties as a Londoner (apart from complaining, paying taxes and lining up in a queue).

I have cast my vote in the London city elections for the London Assembly and the Mayor of London. The 3 main mayoral candidates (glibly speaking) are:
1. an experienced socialist mayor who is looking for to add to his 8 year term for a 12 year term (Labour)
2. a privileged former right-wing journalist clown who has never run anything in his life (Conservatives)
3. a respectable but gay (gasp!) tree-hugging, lily-livered pinko former senior police commissioner (Liberal Democrats).

There are of course the usual assortment of greens, racists and complete psychos, but hey, in a city the size of London you need to take the good with the bad.

I cast my vote at the polling station near my apartment, and I'll be eagerly waiting for the results and the analysis. For those of you who know me well, you'll know I aint joking about looking forward to reading election analysis.

I just think it's nice that Commonwealth citizens who are resident in London are allowed to vote in local elections. Make no mistake about how important these elections are - with the Mayor commanding an 11 billion pound sterling budget overseeing transport and the police, it's important that we have our say. Having said that, I also cast my vote for my local council too in Greenwich and Lewisham, though my care factor is not particularly high on that count. Well, if the freaks win, it'll be a different story altogether.

Has been an exhausting and stressful week trying to sort out my life here in London. Issues of my flat (trying to get the lease extended), trying to change credit cards with intransigent Australian banks needing me to call them at midnight, trying to sort out visa issues and trying to keep on top of work.

I musn't complain about work. For the first time in my life I asked for a pay rise and got it! I was really pleased as it will take some of the pressure off me. However, there were major caveats added - I have doubled my responsibilites. Part of my new and improved role is assessing counter fraud arrangements across 400 health organisations across England and Wales. Given the small size of our team, I have been allocated to assess 100 organisations. With each organisation declaring about 50 pages worth of documents as evidence, this is going to be bigger than Super Tuesday.

I am enjoying it though - I am learning a lot about fraud and audit functions which is interesting, and I'll be sad when my contract us up. I did however get to go to Leeds today which was bloody tiring - 3 hours up, a 2 hour meeting and then 3 hours back to London. I am about to drop dead.

On a fun note, I went to see "The Mousetrap" last Saturday with Frances. Being at a loose end, I decided that Saturday night was going to be a night of culture, and given that The Mousetrap (an Agatha Christie play) has been running non-stop for 55 years, I thought it would be worth going to. I must say I enjoyed myself - there is a great twist at the end, and the actors implored us to keep it a secret. I wonder if I would get sued if I told you the twist here...

What the hell. One of the mayoral candidates will probably sue me for the above descriptions anyway.

the language barrier

I achieved a first last night which I thought would never happen. Not that I ever had intended it to happen, but it is something literally to write home about. My parents would be pleased.

I went out for a few drinks and a bite to eat with Rob last night. Rob was chomping at the bit to get some Chinese food in him, and I was happy to oblige. Wandering through Chinatown we were amazed that people would queue up to get into restaurants. I mean, it's Chinatown! There are so many eateries to choose from down that one strip - same same, but different. The one with the flashing neon pig outside it's window (now changed to a mouse) I do however, avoid.

Flicking through the menu I was a confident boy. I was going to order in Chinese to see if I could get away with doing an a la carte order - usually I cheat and order just for one, but doing a "normal" Chinese order is another thing altogether. I called over the waiter and proceeded to order in Cantonese. He looked at me in bewilderment. And then ran off.

I sat there, with my mouth opening and shutting like an ornamental carp. And then got rescued by another waitress who asked me sweetly in Chinese what I wanted to order.

The banana (white on the inside, yellow on the outside) had succeeded for the first time in his life, to actually necessitate a change in waiter so he could order in Chinese! By then I was feeling pretty smug, but then she threw in a curly one. The Sichuan beef I had ordered is a sweet spicy sauce - not the fiery one she thought I had wanted. I said in my best Cantonese "that's fine" and off we went. And rice for one? No, for two thank you.

Taffy scores!

Now that I've mastered the "noodles, roast duck, beef and rice" in Cantonese it's on to bigger challenges.

Let's see if those Mandarin lessons paid off after all Mum!

the green and the yellow and the blue, red and white

I feel like I've been hit with a dose of Melbourne weather. This morning, for the first time in my life, I've woken up from my own bed to find myself reaching outside my window to catch snow. It was quite an novel experience to draw the curtains and then to see snow carpeting the ground outside. In excitement, I quickly put on my clothes and using my need to do grocery shopping as an excuse, went out to feel snowflakes falling on my nose and accumulating on my glasses. While it was a bit chilly, I was secretly thrilled to be doing such a mundane task with such a beautiful fall of snow. Strangely, the snow stopped about lunch time and then cleared to full sunshine. In watching the sun set over dinner, I've marveled at how tonight I've had my window open and felt the warmth of the sun while making a chicken salad for dinner and listening to Kisstory on the radio. I feel in a way that I've been transported back in time to a Melbourne summer - music from a decade ago, and being warm and cold at the same time. Quite a nice combination really, like sweet and sour pork (don't you even think about touching that last bit of pineapple) or hot and sour soup which as a Chinese I must rabidly claim to loathe, but am instead quietly delighted when one of you caucasian people order it as an entree for dinner.

Though, this wasn't my first London snow. Last week when Nick was around, as Nick and I were walking along the Mall from Buckingham Palace in sunshine, there were a few flakes of snow falling, although it was more like light hail than anything else. Later that night as we looked for dinner, it snowed for real - it was funny walking into a restaurant, people staring at us covered in snow, completely unaware of the snow storm that was happening outside.

I said to Nick, who had only arrived that afternoon that he had brought in the snow with him. I was more happy however that he had remember to bring me Tim Tams from Australia! Nick had never been to London before, so I played tourist guide to him, discovering in the process things that I had never seen before. Giving him the original (and rather mediocre) Taffy's Tour of London, we visited Harrods (not my idea, mind you - I can't stand the uppity and touristy Harrods), and took a stroll through Green Park to Buckingham Palace. Green Park was ablaze with daffodils, and I couldn't resist getting a picture taken. It really was beautiful - pockets of yellow and white in a sea of green. To Nick's relief I refrained from skipping merrily through the daffodils.

Photos of main attractions completed, including an attempt by Nick to climb one of the lions at Trafalgar Square (a feat not attempted by myself yet), and a photo of us with a Guard near the Horse Guards, Nick declared it to be drinking time as we crossed Westminster Bridge. Nick found a famous pub in his guide, so we headed off to Waterloo to The George - a pub hundreds of years old. After sampling a few ales, we wandered back towards Chinatown for a cheap meal and headed back home - Nick snoring loudly on the train. Interestingly for him and not so much for me, Nick had what he termed his "second wind" and we proceeded to open a bottle of red and have a good chat into the early hours of the morning.

The next day I left Nick to his own devices after battling the peak hour crowds together. Later that evening, we went out for a drink in Holborn, with more ales to be sampled. After a few drinks I was getting decidedly cheery, and it was even more so after Nick's cousin, Molly arrived for the festivities. The drinks flowed and we were soon getting hungry, where we ended up somewhere in the West End for eats. By that stage I had hit exhaustion, and it was back home not for sleep but a rather boozy chat to Francis over the phone back in Melbourne, and the completion of a bottle of wine.

The next day I bid farewell to Nick who was heading to France, but I could not yet reclaim my apartment back. Back when my Mum was at University, she had a roommate called Ming who eventually moved to France while mum ended up in Australia. They kept in contact, and each had their own families. Clearly Mum has been talking about me behind my back, and Ming found out that I was living in London. Ming's daughter was coming to London for the first time for a Uni conference - would I mind putting her up for a couple of nights? I couldn't say no to something that had come full circle. Viviane and I had a good laugh over it later on, and I got a crash course in French. I learnt how to say Bouillabaise properly (something like boo-ya-beh) and how to say "La defence" (la dee-fonce). I also learnt what the French really thought of President Sarkozy, and we both agreed how charismatic President Chirac and Premier de Villepin were in the hey-day.

Viviane was very sweet to buy me cookies from "Ben's" - apparently a famous shop near St Pauls. Famous or not, the cookies were melt-in-your-mouth-buttery-smooth. Must go and search for them sometime because cookies like that need rescuing behind glass counters and eaten with a nice cup of tea.

Later that weekend I went to the Museum of Natural History to check out the Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition - a yearly competition of the most amazing photography of wildlife. Being a sunny Sunday afternoon, there were kids everywhere. Walking out of the Tube station, I came across dad and young son at the top of the stairs. Dad was having technical difficulties with stroller, while the little boy dressed in the cutest navy blue coat teetered at the top of the stairs, arms outstretched in balancing himself, tottering down the stairs with nervousness and triumph at every step. At the museum, I got stuck in a line to get in - 2 little Indian twin boys were in front of me, mum feeding them samosas from a blue lunchbox. One of the little boys whined about having to line up, and the mum shushed him up, explaining that "he wasn't allowed to go in until the lady in front of him had got in". I laughed and the mum looked at me and gave me a knowing grin - the inculcation of British values in one clean swoop!

The exhibition itself was very good. Incredible photos of wildlife and landscrapes took your breath away. As the lead caption explained, some photographers waited for hours and hours to get the perfect shot. Perfection indeed. There were a small number of landscape photos included - one of them of an Australian beach. Deliberately blurry, you could see the grainy but strong colours of the sand, surf and sky. I felt a ping of homesickness when someone behind me talked about how great it must be to live in Australia.

It is.

But of course, such opportunities to see exhibitions such as these are few and far between in Melbourne. As is the chance to drink really good ale - a habit that I am picking up slowly in London. I'm now starting to appreciate independent brewery ales every so often. One of my friends, Angus, is a bit of an ale enthusiast, so it's always good to have him choose ales for me to sample when I'm out catching up with him. We found a great tapas bar near Tavistock Square (yes, that square) and had a great meal of Spanish meats, prawns, lentils and artichokes. Although, I wasn't so game as Angus in having a glass of sherry with our food, I did try a pretty robust Spanish red.

As we've now hit daylight savings and spring, I'm looking forward to really enjoying twilight in my flat, watching the golden sunset withdrawing over the views of Canary Wharf. Having been sunshine deprived for the past 6 months, it's time to open the windows and really see what else London has to offer as I hurtle towards my first birthday in London.

the sound of music and the sounds of music

I must confess that I didn't realise that so many people read this blog. Given my penchant for using this blog as a vehicle for capturing every imaginable whinge, I'm somewhat embarrassed that people take the time to read my diatribes on trains and why I get annoyed at people who don't move fast enough getting on the Tube. But yes, I am pleased all the same.

Having said that, I am probably going to alienate even more people by saying that despite me living on the footstep of Europe, I was (a) too bored (b) too lazy and (c) too cheap to organise some traveling for over the Easter break. I'm finding that even long weekends away can be quite taxing on the ol' boy - the stresses of having to arrange everything, then shelling out money for it, then calculating how much money I lose by not working (I don't get paid for Bank holidays as a contractor), then wondering how I was going to fill in the days wandering around oh, Austria or France or what have you.

It was Frances however who goaded us in to action when we saw that cheap flights to any European destination was disappearing by the minute. By luck, we found some cheap flights to Salzburg in Austria. Salzburg wasn't a place which was high on my priority list, but browsing on the net, decided that it was worthwhile to have a look - though pretty much persuaded by the chance to go on The Sound of Music tour. As always, Taffy's over-active mind imagined him running down the mountains, twirling his outstretched arms, singing, a la Julie Andrews, but with a far more scratchy and pitiful voice.

The week before Easter was unexpectedly busy - and became ill again. Unfortunately my illness warranted a visit to the a NHS Walk-In centre where I spent a cumulative total of 3 hours of my life waiting to see a nurse in a very overstretched and busy centre. At one stage it looked like I would have had to bail out on the holiday, but I got a bit better and it was off to Salzburg. Fortunately our flight out of London was with British Airways - for the uninitiated, a full-service airline such as BA compared to the horrors of Ryanair is an absolute blessing with an enormous cloud hovering on top. Our flight was delayed for an hour, but as Frances is a Qantas gold frequent flyer, she was able to take me into the lounge where I drank wine, ate a full lunch and then proceeded to pilfer snacks and dinky little cans of drink from the fridge to enjoy from our train from Munich to Salzburg.

Unfortunately it was too expensive for us to fly direct to Salzburg airport, so the closest airport was Munich which had reasonable fares. I'm always impressed with the Germans and their efficiency - plenty of non-EU passport checkpoints (where the immigration officer asked me whether I was going skiing - I almost laughed in his face) and a beautifully clean and fast train to the main station in Munich. Although, a nice German man had to help us out with the train tickets, and when we were forced to make an unexpected change in the middle of nowhere, I impressed myself with my ability to navigate the (admittedly easy to understand) subway system. An even bigger bummer we missed the train by a few minutes, forcing us to shelter in the train station food court (where I again impressed myself by remembering my German to ask for Lebekas Semmel which I enjoyed eating the last time I was in Munich) to wait for a slow regional train. We got to Salzburg... eventually... where the only sound was the rain thundering around us.

Salzburg however, is a very picturesque city. Walking from the hotel along the river was really nice - the snow-capped mountains in the background and pretty little (and very expensive) houses lining the river. Of course, there were the usual annoyances such as not being able to find a decent place to eat which wasn't filled with cigarette smoke, and the ubiquitous Mozartklugen chocolate balls being advertised everywhere (and yes, I did succumb). Being my first day on holiday, I had a large breakfast of ham and eggs and then apfelstrudel with vanilla sauce and a coffee. I felt ill for hours afterwards.

Feeling rather bloated and over-indulged, we traipsed through various churches, ate an enormous donut pretzel for lunch (well, I lie, I shared half of it with Frances) and watched men play chess on a board painted on the ground. All in all, it was a lovely morning, but clearly we were waiting for the main event. The afternoon rolled around and it was off to the hills for the Sound of Music tour. I'm not someone who usually likes kitsch tours such as these (ok, I lie again, I love it), but I really must say that it was a lot of fun. We saw the back and front of the Von Trapp house (2 different locations), the pavilion where Liesel and Kurt sing "I am sixteen", the actual Abbey were Maria used to live (incidentally dating back to the year 700 or something like that) and the church where Maria and the Captain got married - yet again, not the actual church where they got married, but a church in a small town outside of Salzburg. The tour guide was hysterical, although towards the end I was thinking that it was more due to his mental state doing this twice a day, every day. Some funny titbits I learnt on the Sound of Music was that most Austrians hate the Sound of Music, that the Von Trapp family actually escaped Austria in a train to Italy and then moved to America, that had the family climbed the Austrian mountains at the end of the movie they would have found themselves in Germany and that Gretel nearly died in the boat scene when all the kids fell out of the boat into the water.

I was so disappointed when the tour ended that I hadn't managed to run down a mountain, singing (erm... screeching) "the hills are alive", so France and I resolved to continue the fun at the Mirabell Gardens where many scenes of Maria and the children on their big day out were filmed. I now have photos of me jumping up the steps (singing "do-re-me"), marching with outstretched hands on the fountain, and running through the big trellis. Frances and I had so much fun that the rest of our tour group (who had followed us to the gardens after the tour) started to copy us. It was very funny though, watching everyone else's interpretation of it. Save, perhaps, the American tourists - we overheard one lady say that she had been on the tour 4 times - it was enough to make Frances and I spit out our Mozartklugen chocolate balls in mirth. Then there was the quintessential American tourist dad - complete with baseball cap, Goretex jacket, bumbag, camera bag strapped to his belt, aviator sunglasses and he was dressed in a way which looked like a Ralph Lauren truck had backed into him. But enough of poking fun at innocent American tourists, I am sure that Australia would refuse to let me back in the country had they seen the antics I got up to in the Mirabell gardens. These memories of course, will become a few of my favourite things.

But how are we going to solve the problem of filling up the next day, with the ice caves closed?

Our first stop on Sunday morning was the birthplace of Mozart with the most aggressive ticket counter woman I have met for a long time. I shouldn't have been surprised at how monumentally sh1t the museum was. In one room, they had upside-down paintings to symbolise how "Mozart turned music upside down" (yes, really), a cot with an ashen white plastic baby (supposedly Mozart as a child), and a replica piano. Definitely worth our 6 euros and the 15 minutes we spent there. Later in the day we went to Mozart's residence located in the Neustadt which was far more interesting. They had old documents and music sheets, and a great audio guide. I usually skip through audio guides, but this one was great in that you got to sample a variety of Mozart's works through his life - including ones that I had never heard before. On one display there was a pile of books which reached the ceiling - it turned out to be the collection of every single one of Mozart's compositions. I guess it never fails to astound me the genius of Mozart - at the age of 4 he was already composing quite complex pieces of music! A far cry from my own experience at the age of 4 - throwing building blocks at Toby, demanding food and sleeping. Yes, I am genius.

Our next few stops was at the Residenz gallery which I thoroughly enjoyed - a collection of modern and renaissance art arranged according to the theme of colour. Frances was unimpressed, but I thought it was great. We also visited the Salzburg Museum. I quote an earlier email to Rob about it:

"...was horrendously boring and unstructured - a collection of crap put together in this new fangled postmodern building. Putting shit together in a nice building does not compensate for having a stupid collection. The toilets however, were very swish."

In adding to the number of museums and sights we visited to clock up maximum value on our touristy Salzburg Card, we breezed through the very strange Fortress with its incredibly boring exhibits, save for the display of torture instruments. They needn't have put out the torture instruments - the museum was boring enough as it was. Other non highlights included the Festival Hall tour which we did where the tour guide spoke for 30 minutes in German, and then a good 45 seconds in English (or so it felt that way). Annoyingly, the Hall where the Von Trapp family had won the singing competition was closed - which meant that our original reason for doing the tour was gone, and we were forced to listen to incomprehensible German about some random lighting system (from what I deduced from the hand gestures).

Finally, having finished everything we had wanted to see I dragged Frances to the Museum of Modern Art where I was a bit surprised how small the collection was. We did end up having an icecream at the restaurant there and got stubbed about 20 euros for 2 icecreams and some water. We were not impressed. Dinner however was a cheapy affair at some random pub - we got a mixed dish to share for 2 which ended up being this enormous pile of meat including 2 big schnitzels, so we were happy.

That final evening it started to snow. At first it was very beautiful in the snow, and then it got cold and miserable as my feet froze over and my coat started accumulating more and more snow. The next morning it was still snowing a blizzard and I was a bit worried about our flight being delayed while standing in the bus shelter, washing the bin in front of us accumulate snow. Fortunately, the Austrians were clearly used to being snowed in and there were no delays - just the usual mass confusion and pushing and shoving to board the Ryanair flight.

But it was back to London where joyfully, the trains weren't running on Easter Monday, leading to a 2.5 hour journey home. But the day wasn't to end with me collapsing into a pile on the couch - Nick was arriving that afternoon and I have been given my instructions, in that he "hadn't come to London to drink tea, old chap".

The sounds of my marching orders, clearly.

the spring in the step

The past few weeks have been quite a stress, but it's time to take stock of things as London warms up and more and more yellow daffodils pop up from the ground. It has been quite pretty with daffodils popping out in the middle of nowhere. Staring out the window on the train one day, I saw that daffodils had bloomed out along the tracks. It was certainly a sight for sore eyes. As some of you may know, daffodils are my favourite flower - they are so happy and bright (quite unlike my personality i know), and they are also the emblem for the Cancer Council, of which my mum has a lot of involvement in.

Another little cute thing which I enjoy in London is when I read thelondonpaper on the way home. thelondonpaper is a free newspaper which is given out all over London in the rush home, and it a vastly better newspaper than the London Lite which is also given out as well. In thelondonpaper there is a great little section where people send in pictures of their pets. There have been the cutest pictures sent in (as well as the usual array of horrendously ugly pets), and my favourites include a pair of baby bunny rabbits and this fluffy cat which was standing up on its hind legs - and dressed up in bow tie. It was so funny, and it was hilarious that the kitty cat looked so unhappy being dressed up in that way. There is also a "London picture of the day" where you send in pictures of London life. One memorable picture had a penguin and his keeper making writing on a clipboard - the penguin is looking at the clipboard and the caption is "that's not how you spell my name!".

I'm easily amused.

It's been a busy week - I was sent to Coventry (pun intended, but doesn't have quite the same impact given its factual accuracy) for work. I've now working my way up north, having now visited the east Midlands (Leicester) and the west Midlands (Coventry) on government business. I travelled up on the Virgin train service which was quite slick and very fast - indeed, the entire train was decked out in suits and my ticket price seemed to match. For the privilege of travelling on a peak hour service to Birmingham, I had to pay 109 pounds for a return ticket! Unbelievable! I felt bad, despite the fact that the NHS was paying for my ticket.

To add to it all, I've been having some fun as well. I managed to see another comedy show with Rob last Friday night. Unfortunately the gig we wanted to see had sold out so we went back to the same place. Rob and I again double parked ourselves with beers for the show - only to find that the ticket seller had dudded us and we found ourselves seeing the same comedian. We were getting annoyed when we heard the same jokes, but as the comedian was doing impro, the show got better as it went along. Rob and I looked at each other with relief, and then got pissed after the show. I may or may not have sent drunken messages to people or engaged in drunken calls on the last train home.

My bad.

That weekend Frances and I also went to see a movie in North Greenwich and had dinner out in North Greenwich. North Greenwich isn't that spectacular but it's the closest cinema complex to home. Nor was the food spectacular, and after dinner we had to wait in the cold for the bus home. I complained to Frances that in Melbourne that after dinner out I would get in the car and go home. Clearly, there is much suffering having to rely completely on public transport in London!

My fingers are getting tired talking about my social life which continues its annoyingly frustrating habit of being absolutely packed one weekend and then being miserably quiet the next. That weekend saw me in Greenwich with a colleague from my old job for a cup of Fairtrade tea, and then dinner later on in Brick Lane with Rox, Mel and Ben. I was so pressed for time that weekend that I rushed home from Greenwich, ironed my shirts, then ran out the door to get to Liverpool St. That night I missed the tube to get to London Bridge by seconds, then had to wait 10 minutes for the next northern line tube, only to miss my connection back to Woolwich. I calculated I could get home 5 minutes earlier than waiting 30 minutes for the next train by taking the Jubilee line to North Greenwich and then taking the bus and ended up home 3 minutes earlier than I would have had I waited for the train.

An easy ride home it was not.

Last night I went clubbing for the first time in a while and had a blast. Went with my friends Luc and Andrew and their mates to Soho and danced the night away to a countdown of the top 100 pop tracks. Walking to the nightclub, sheltering underneath umbrellas, I commented that despite the soaking rain (which ruined my hairstyle that evening) the weather was quite mild (it was about 8 degrees). My friends laughed and told me I had made it as an English person - a complaint and a non-complaint about the weather!

We arrived at the huge club at song 75 and danced away until song 30 where by then we were complaining of our sore feet. Not to mention that my lower back wanted to strangle me. By the time I staggered out at 4am, I still had to crawl to the night bus stop for a 50 minute ride home. I'm not a fan of the night bus given how long it takes, but that night I felt ok as I spent most of the time eavesdropping on the conversation. For some reason they started singing themes from TV shows and "Round the Twist" came up - I woke up in confusion hearing the lyrics from a kiddies TV show which I hadn't seen in excess of 15 years! Nevertheless, I got home safe and sound, having company on the walk home with 3 blokes who proceeded to urinate against a wall near home. Charming.

If they were thoughtful they should have done it against the chestnut tree for fertiliser - the chestnut tree is now sprouting new leaves and foliage. I'm looking forward to seeing it with all its foliage again - because then I will know that the chestnuts will come out and I would have come full circle in London.

Just like my bus ride home last night.

the grump

I must admit that I’m becoming a bit of a Leicester Square junkie. The main attractions being the overwhelming number of tourists, the crowds and the congestion at Leicester Square tube station. But ever since Chinese New Year kicked in a few weeks ago, I’ve made every excuse to stop by to eat roast duck noodles (now a frequent patron of “China China” and “New World” restaurants) and buy my little Chinese bakery items, drink coffee while reading The Guardian in one of the myriad of Soho cafes, and browse the numerous bookstores in the area, my favourite being the enormous Waterstones near Piccadilly Circus with its thematic displays of books, and the rather hip non-struggling-independent bookshop Foyles.

I’ve had a good start to the Chinese New Year so far. Despite deliberately avoiding the masses for the actual celebrations, Chinatown looks absolutely splendid with the streets lined with criss-crossing lanterns. It’s a spectacular sight to behold, and certainly very pretty. I’ve had numerous dinners out with my relatives in Chinatown for the new year, although David was good enough to drag himself and a decent bottle of Australian red out to Woolwich for dinner at my flat.

But as a very auspicious first, I ordered in Chinese for the first time in my life. Usually when I eat Chinese in Melbourne I have one of my parents to do the ordering. While waiting for my uncle, and with my halfie-cousins sitting next to me (with apologies to David who can actually speak fluent Mandarin), I was left to fend for our table in ordering the fish, the crayfish (on noodles with ginger and spring onions), the beef hot-pot and the roast duck. I could feel the perspiration drip down my back as I bumbled along, the rather ungracious Chinese waitress repeating everything back to me in English to make sure that what I said I had actually meant. Success! The food came out as planned, and I was felt the need to call my parents to finally tell them that their son had survived in a Chinese restaurant – ordering Chinese food.

Pity the Caucasian or non-speaking Chinese person who wants the real Chinese food!

It’s been a few good weeks settling into my new role at the NHS Counter Fraud Service and I feel that I’ve managed to get a grip on what’s expected of me. It’s been a bit of a shift again for me to work on policy work which is really more of corporate services work than actual policy-wonk detail, but I’m keen to start travelling around England and Wales for the research for the project that I’m working on.

Outside work of course has been quite breezy as well. It’s starting to get somewhat warmer now, and the sun comes up earlier which means it’s not dark when I leave for work. The South Eastern trains are hell as always, and to illustrate, I have copied part of an email I sent to Rob one morning at work:

“I was in a grump this morning - me and this other girl were gunning for the last remaining seat on the train (luck would have it that someone got off at my stop today! unbelievable! never happens). She cut in front of me and got the seat. Not happy Jan. I spent the next 35 minutes silently criticising her hair (greasy), her skin (pale and clammy), her dress sense (a 30 year old chick in 80s clothing), her coat (hideously pink, lint-covered and very dirty - heard of a drycleaner?), her shoes (she's had sartorial advice from Margaret Thatcher, I suspect), her handbag (i can't believe a crocodile was sacrificed for that monstrous red thing on her lap) and her choice of newspaper (the Sun - says it all, really).

I felt better after all that and hoped she had a comfortable ride in.“

I have no qualms about being a bitter old bag about this. That girl was the deserving target of my acidic wit.

Speaking of Rob. Rob and I decided to go out to see some comedy one Sunday night and met in Leicester Square. My trains had been cancelled so I was forced to take a bus, and was late. Fortunately, eagle-eyed Rob had discovered that comedy tickets were selling for a fiver at some hotel near the Square. There was no argument when we discovered that there was a 2-for-1 deal as well on drinks. Needless to say, the beer deal was a bit too much for me – at one stage I was tripled parked with beers and getting decidedly cheery. Cheery enough to create another first – chipping in when the comedians asked for audience participation. A good night was had by all, until I missed the train home. Rob was home even before I got on the next train home.

Does anyone see a common theme here? I love trains.

I now use the Central Line to get to work which is ridiculously packed – not to mention the enormous gaps between the train and the platform. I do enjoy using the Central Line though – it’s a hell of a lot faster than the ulcer-inducing slow South Eastern Train service.

What was also fast was Alex's time in the UK. With his Uni holidays over, he was going back to Australia via London, and what better way to celebrate his last night in London with a cheapy dinner in Chinatown (yet another variation on a theme) and a night of culture. Being a Monday night, Alex had decided he had wanted to see the Phantom of the Opera. We decided that we would embark on the last-minute-cheap-ticket strategy - with success. We managed to get some £25 tickets which was great - up in the circles, but right in the centre. Unfortunately, a combination of it being a Monday night and sitting in the circle meant that we were beset upon by hordes of rude tourists who talked throughout the performance, opened packets of crisps in moments of quiet, took photos with flash illegally during the performance, and put their feet on the seats during interval. It was certainly an all class audience. I had seen The Phantom before (aged 11, in Melbourne) and had heard the music before, courtesy of parents who enjoy the music, but it was a very good performance indeed. At some points it was thoroughly creepy, but I suppose that was the intended effect. Bravo, you have made a culture-literate happy, and brought a manners-impoverished audience to its feet.

A standing ovation for all. Except for those heathen philistine neanderthals sitting behind and next to me.

the essential vocabulary

For a while now I've been nursing a little dream in my mind - of wandering down the Danube, sunlight on my face, humming "The Blue Danube" Waltz as I amble down the river. My little dream wasn't quite fulfilled, but when 3 boys set off on an adventure to Budapest one long weekend, there are bound to be stories that go on their own little tangents. These are some of their stories.

Last Friday I bid farewell to my colleagues at the Health Professions Council - I was excited to be moving on, but I was a bit sad at the same time. Every time I move on, it's always at the point where I feel comfortable and I feel like I'm starting to make friends. It was nice to end my contract with some drinks with some colleagues at a local Kennington pub, and I'll definitely miss some of them. After working in a basement office with Gemma for a month, I'll probably be feeling rather perplexed by anything different. We've had some great little chats, many of them lamenting the substandard South Eastern trains service - we are joined by 5 others in the Fitness to Practice team who live in the Greenwich/Lewisham/Woolwich area. I've learnt a lot too - I feel more comfortable dealing with difficult members of the public, and I've learnt sometimes that despite the sad stories I read about in my cases that a job needs to be done, and to be done with a clear head without being swayed by personal circumstances. Indeed, some of the cases I dealt with covered everything and anything from drink driving, sexual assault, theft fro hospitals and some other more morbid stories which I can't mention in my blog. Ask me about it one day.

But Budapest it was. I had mentioned a few months ago to my cousin in London, David that I wanted to take a trip with my cousins - and with Alex in Leeds on Uni holidays, it was an opportune time to see somewhere not on the Western Europe map.

Our arrival at Budapest airport may have provided a clue of what was to come. Getting off the plane, we boarded buses and was driven less than 100 metres to the terminal. It took less time to drive to the terminal than to walk down the steps off the plane. Efficiency is probably not a strong point in Hungary - as EU nationals breezed through 4 immigration desks, the Australians, Americans, Chinese, Singaporeans and other assorted unhappy non-EU citizens waited for 1 desk to process us. We waited (I fumed) as I watched an immigration clerk chewed her fingernails and looked as us blankly. I then had to suffer the indignity of having the immigration clerk complain about my new chip-technology passport, which according to a British immigration official takes forever and a day to scan. Then we waited for half an hour for our bags to get driven less than 100 metres to the carousel. Clearly, EU expansion didn't taken into account German efficiency or Dutch speed.

Deciding to save money, we decided to take the local buses and trains to the city centre being careful to validate our tickets. The train was a scary old jalopy, painted in Soviet green (i.e. the colour of bronze gone wrong), but it was very fast. It was in fact so fast, that every time we came to a station we lurched to a massive shuddering brake-squealing stop. Leaving the station we were pulled aside by 3 ticket inspectors who asked to see our tickets, conveniently letting past all the other passengers except for, oh, 3 of us. I confidently passed my ticket over and the lady looked at it very carefully. She motioned over the head inspector (the biggest, fattest, most Eastern European looking one) where he was busy interrogating David and Alex. Turns out that our tickets were invalid once we had changed lines. He told us gruffly that the fine was to be 6000 Forint each, which is equivalent to something like 20 pounds each. Outrageous! That is a huge sum of money in Hungary. We tried to reason with him saying that we weren't to know - that we had already validated our first ticket and we obviously made a mistake. He wasn't backing down, and was wanting our passports (as if, buddy!). By this stage I was getting very nervous and I told the man I would show him my passport number so I could withdraw money from an ATM. David however, had other ideas. As the next wave of people came long, David pushed Alex and I to the side to have a discussion on what to do. Or so I thought. One of my cousins (I'm not going to name which one) went up to the man and made the universal sign for cash with his fingers. The man looked at him carefully. "18,000 Forint!" he demanded. My cousin countered with "I'll give you 5000". A standoff ensured. He relented with an offer of 9,000 Forint which my cousin had originally said he didn't have, but now we did. As the other officials walked towards us after checking other tickets, the man sent us packing. I ran.

Despite our little setback, we put our best foot forward to begin our adventures in Budapest. Our hostel was located in a loft on the top floor of a large apartment quadrangle. An enormous wooden door guarded the entrance to the grand old building, hiding the slightly decayed courtyard and what felt like its many secrets. A rickety old elevator took us up to the third floor, and we had to climb to the fourth floor to reach the hostel. I wasn’t particularly enamoured given my fear of heights – peering over the edge into the middle of the quadrangle was enough to make me suffer numerous bouts of vertigo every time we left or entered the hostel.

My first sight of the Danube wasn’t the giddying, twirling-around-with-open-arms experience I had wanted it to be. It was cold, overcast and windy. And what’s more, we were hungry. But crossing our first bridge in Budapest to the Buda side from the Pest side (we ended up crossing all 4 bridges in Budapest over the 3 days), I was surprised at how cold, fast and wide the Danube was. My visions of East European children splashing around on the banks was replaced with imaginations of me falling into the swirling murky torrent – ever the sunny optimist, I know. We passed the supposedly famous Gellert Baths and kept on wandering down a random street, stopping for coffee in this cute little café with a rather grumpy but bored proprietor who sold us scalding hot coffee. It was nice to rest a little and relax, despite having not really done anything except haul Mr Grumpy out from bed at 4.30am to Luton Airport.

We climbed to the top of the Citadella where we found some big monument which wasn’t particularly spectacular, with Alex stopping to buy hot wine. I have never really liked mulled wine, but the Hungarians seem to do it better than the Czechs – it was more of a nutmeg and cinnamon flavour to enjoy, rather than the Czech tartness which I had been bracing myself for. By then it was getting dark and we headed back to more well-lit areas. By the time I left Budapest I think I had said to David and Alex that there were more scary graffiti-covered, piss-smelling tunnels than I had experienced anywhere in my life.

Lovely.

The hostel was good enough to recommend a small but very cute restaurant close by, and we wandered over for a fabulous meal of goulash. Goulash, being a meat casserole style of dish is served either with potatoes or dumplings (the dumplings being more like tasteless rubbery gnocchi rather than the pork “Soi Gao” dumplings that you or I are accustomed to in Melbourne). Now I want dumplings (as in the real Chinese ones) and I’m a million miles away from Dumpling King in Box Hill. What a strange craving – never had this one before. Damned blog.

But back to goulash. Alex had a good idea to send a few postcards to our relatives, and in the course of one postcard had clearly forgotten how to speak English. As postcards are ideal places to write the traveller’s guide to War and Peace and Goulash, a sentence that was supposed to read “for dinner we ate goulash” turned out “for dinner, we goulash”. When in Rome, speak in pidgin East European English. And with Alex’s uncanny ability to imitate a Russian accent, our new motto for the day was “we goulash”, pronounced, ‘wi geulesh’. Unfortunately, with all “in” jokes, I don’t think anyone will understand what I have just written. David/Alex – are you there? We rock, because we goulash.

Walking back to the hostel, we passed a jazz bar but decided that it was a little bit too seedy and camp. Even worse, the hostel owners recommended this awful looking jazz bar to us, so we decided to check out Budapest nightlife ourselves. One recommended bar was solidly booked, and by chance the bar next door looked both classy and had a jazz band playing that night. We took a chance and went in and found our new local.

Avocado was a small bar which had a restaurant part, a bar part, a lounge mezzanine and a nightclub downstairs. At about 9pm when we arrived the jazz was intoxicating and smooth and our drinks selection matched the music. Upon looking at the prices there was no point in ordering the cheap beer and we headed straight for the spirits. For a couple of quid we enjoyed local spirits too, with roll-off-the-tongue names such as Zwack which we classed as a heavy duty chai latte. It took a concerted effort from 3 of us to finish a double shot of Zwack. Zwack may be fun to say, but not so fun to drink.

Zwack. Zwack Zwack Zwack. OK enough already.

About 3 hours later and many drinks we had racked up a bill of 11,000 forint. When we slowly did the maths in our heads (I never got there, but physicist David eventually got there) we laughed and laughed when we realised that a top night of 3 hours on the spirits only cost us 10 quid each. We planned our next round for the next night, then stumbled out the door to walk the 500 metres to our hostel door.

I have complained many times before of the loud, obnoxious hostellers who return home at 3 in the morning to discuss their drinking prowess outside the door for all to hear. Unfortunately that night, despite the best of our intentions, our muffled laughter and chat morphed into a full-blown drunken Aussie yobbo conversation which I’m sure would have annoyed even the most alcoholic of Australian yobbos. It was well past 2 before we decided that the rest of the hostel could do without our noise and racket. Apologies. Not. Now all you drunks know what it feels like to listen to inane drunken hostel chatter!

This blog is sponsored by 3M earplugs.

A restless sleep later, we stumbled out of the hostel in search for food the next morning. Setting out for breakfast, we discovered that most of Budapest was closed, and as we walked further and further we were getting desperate. Walking by the beautiful cathedral shimmering in the morning light, the appearance of oasis turned into reality. A jazz café serving breakfast popped out of nowhere, and we were starving. It was for me the hippest breakfast place I have ever been to. Dim lighting, passive smoking and black and white pictures of famous jazz musicians covering the walls added to its ambient atmosphere. I was very much unused to eating while trying not to breathe deeply, and I didn’t last long before the search for oxygen outdid my desire for funky breakfast atmosphere. We continued on to the enormous parliament building with its resplendent gothic spires, walked past various statues and walked through the island park. David and I vetoed Alex’s request to ride on a 4-seater bicycle in due deference to our dignity and masculinity, but now I am thinking that perhaps it would have been a laugh after all, despite how bad and shaky the bike looked. We shopped at the local supermarket for lunch and headed up to the castle which itself wasn’t very interesting save for the stunning views of Budapest in the soft afternoon sunlight.

That night was a much quieter night – there didn’t seem to be any concerts on to see and we had a much quieter dinner. We did however end up at the Avocado again and had a few drinks – where I rediscovered the joy of Amaretto. Mmm. Pure almond goodness.

On our last day in Budapest we found ourselves running out of time after a slow start in the morning. We had an expensive stop for tea and carrot cake in a café, but we eventually made our way to the Szechenyi Thermal Baths (that spelling is wrong, so don’t blame me if you end up at the wrong baths if you follow my advice). Budapest is famous for its thermal baths, but apparently the one we went to was one of the better ones. I was a bit nervous at first changing in front of a whole lot of gawking Eastern European men, and I was even more nervous standing in my boardshorts staring at the freezing cold pool which you had to go through before entering the spas. A men sitting on the edge motioned us in – and it was now or never. I plunged into the cold pool trying my hardest to not scream like a girl and ran out, straight into the sauna which was so hot that I didn’t even make it through the front door. By then I was now a mixture of shivering and sweating and feeling mildly ill.

All was made better when I plunged into the green thermal pool, thinking hard to stop thinking hard about the discolouration and hygiene of the baths. It was certainly relaxing, but of course, the Eastern Europeans don’t make it easy for you. Running outside into 3 degrees (where I had been wearing 3 layers of clothing, plus a goose-down puffer jacket), wet, in wet boardies and with wet hair, it was a dash to the steaming outside pool to warm up in the pool which was 38 degrees. Aaah. Signs warning us not to stay longer for 20 minutes ensured a series of us legging it between the heat, the freezing cold, the warmth in the indoors pool and then back outside again. In one pool, there was a circular partition where you entered into the jet stream which propelled you around in circles around another spa. Giggling and screaming like a girl, the old men laughed at me having such a good time. My first attempt to stop going around in circles failed as the jet streams pushed me back into the strong current. Funny but then I realised that people were laughing at me, and my inane effort to get out of the pool.

Two hours later and 10 prune fingers later, we left, smelling of thermal baths and with a clinking of coins into the turnstile as we left. Bonus! We had stayed under 3 hours which entitled us to a partial refund of our entry fee. By then we were running late and we powered by yet another hideous monument, a quick lunch of sausages, and a very careful journey to the airport making sure we validated a new ticket for each new mode of transport.

Our flight was delayed and we were getting nervous for Alex who had to catch a train to Leeds that night. Luck was on our side – for the first time ever I was the first in the non-EU line for immigration, and I had a lovely chat to the immigration official. I had written “civil servant” for my profession on the landing card, and it turns out the immigration officer had himself worked in policy for the Home Office. I explained to him what I had done for previous jobs, and I was astounded when he congratulated me for how well I had done! My jaw dropped when he said that I had a promising civil service career ahead of me. Perhaps it was my nice smile, but it was a nice change from the interrogation I usually get from British immigration.

Two hours later on the very slow train back to London Bridge (I had stupidly decided to go straight to London Bridge rather than taking the express train to King’s Cross), I was home exhausted and happy. Happy because the following day was a day off for me before I started my new job at the NHS Counter Fraud Service. A chance for me to go the West End for a cup of coffee and a newspaper, and a stop by the Chinese bakery for goodies.

Who said that money didn’t buy you happiness?

the on button

Not even a month into 2008 and I'm already tired. NYE's eve saw me flying into London at 6am, where Dad and I set a cracking pace (well, Dad set a cracking pace, I just limped along) at the end-of-year sales on Oxford St. I've only visited Selfridges twice in my life before, and was never able to afford a single thing. But I couldn't believe how good the sales were. I was feeling pretty good having picked up some what I thought were some damn fine looking items, including some cool Paul Smith jeans (hard to resist with purple and green stitching and different sized buttons) and I finally succumbed, about 5 years too late, to a salmon-pink button-down tee. Both sound like horror haute couture items, but it is time for summer! Paul Smith was also the order of the day with this really funky navy blue tee with the fishing chair and tackle. Oh happy days.

It's been a very civilised past couple of weeks, with civilised activities ranging from spending sunny weekends scrubbing my scary shower curtain to lah-di-dah nights at the ballet and orchestra. I've never been to the ballet before, and London is as good a place to see the classic, Swan Lake. Deciding that this was an event worthy of dressing myself up, I actually ironed my good shirt, found my dressy jeans and shoes and unwrapped my good overcoat and boarded the lovely South Eastern train service with people placing their muddy feet on seats. I was glad that I had dressed up - many patrons had dressed up in shirt and tie. And of course, there is the odd minger who rolls up in their oldest tee and jeans and opens packets of crisps in the middle of the silence.

I myself was a bit worried that I was going to get bored with 3 hours of ballet, but I pleasantly surprised. I guess it helps that the English National Opera is one of the premier ballet companies in the world, and it helps even more when you recognise some of the music. My flatmate gave me a quick rundown of the plot beforehand, so I guess I found it easier to follow what was happening. I was impressed with the dancing - much respect for the sheer athleticism, especially for the guys who did the lifts and still managed to prance around with such grace and agility. In many ways, ballet dancing is far harder than kicking around a football (of any code) - you need strength, agility and rhythm to be able to be able to run away without getting mugged by the fat ugly bullies behind the sports equipment shed, let alone end up being the principal dancer.

The next weekend David, Frances and I tried to get to see the London Philharmonic in action (again, causing much panic to discover that I needed to find a clean and ironed shirt). Unfortunately we found out at the door that tickets were sold out! Fortunately, being in London there was enough cultural stuff to share around without anyone being able to be too greedy. We decided to see what West End shows were still available and walked to the West End from Waterloo (crossing my favourite bridge in London with its very pretty views of the London Eye, St Pauls, Westminster and my South Eastern trains trundling along). Along the way we discovered that the newly renovated St Martin in the Field church in Trafalgar Square had a Mozart Requiem night for a bargain 6 pounds. The only catch was that you couldn't actually see the orchestra or choir - you had to sit in the stalls facing other people across you. In hindsight, our reasoning for choosing these seats was fine - we figured that we were there to listen to music, and that we didn't necessarily need to watch bows moving up and down. Let me say that I wouldn't do it again. It was rather unsettling to hear the music like it was on the radio, yet be forced to stay still and quiet, desperately trying to avoid catching the eye of people sitting directly in front of you on the other side of the church. At one stage I closed my eyes and had a nap, letting the opera waft over me, although it was a tad difficult to nap when the tenor and soprano singers threatened to shatter the newly plastered ceiling with their thunderous voices. The sounds of 'bravo!' jolted me up, and I gratefully joined in the chorus.

It has been a busy few weeks. Drinks with my mate Liam from Uni, yum cha with some new friends (although I do wonder when the waiter took us downstairs to the furthest most corner to sit as if they were embarrassed we had chosen their establishment to eat). A friend cooked me a three course meal, I cooked lunch for Rob to entice him out to the depths of Woolwich (the poor boy thought that trains to Woolwich came every 5 minutes like the Tube), and last night I cooked a wicked prawn and chilli linguine for Frances and I to eat while we watched Shawshank Redemption. I had never watched Shawshank Redemption before, and I was glad that Frances made me watch it. I must say I was moved - and a good reminder for me to maintain my friendships at home, despite the distance between London and Melbourne.

Speaking of Melbourne, I am thinking that there is something in the water that I need to get my hands on. Over the past month I have been delighted to hear that a few friends have become engaged, which means that I might/may/perhaps/possibly be travelling home to Melbourne for some weddings. So my congratulations to Di and Matthias, and to my great mate from school Waz, who I've known since I was 9 who has clearly set the bar high by proposing to his Jess in Paris.

But enough of the mushy boo hoo stuff. I myself open a new chapter (though, I must admit that while my blog entries get longer and longer, the time between jobs is getting shorter and shorter). I've been offered a new post with the National Health Service Counter-Fraud Unit where I'll be working as a Policy Officer. I'm excited and yet scared again - I'll be leaving a great bunch of colleagues at the Health Professions Council. I guess it helps that when your colleagues are your own age, but I've been lucky too in how welcoming and friendly they have been. It's always a bit hard when you're not in a permanent job, as I find that I leave when I'm just starting to get to know people and pick up popular phrases - my favourites being "it's well [insert adjective here] and "go on then". I guess it's a matter of when in Rome. The only problem being that Rome changes so bloody often.

So as the effect from my blissful morning of sitting in a cafe in peaceful solititude reading the Observer recedes, I am off to bed to face a new week. It's going to be a big one. Budapest this coming weekend, and then straight after than I launch into my new job.

I'm getting out my bat and ball. Game on?

the step back before going to the beginning (again)

Hello 2008. I don't know you very well. What say we have a quiet drink, get to know each other and then ramp it up as the year goes?

2007 was kind enough to give me a prelude to what 2008 could be. He (well, I had to give it a gender, didn't I? Heaven forbid if I describe "God" as a "He" for you liberal progressives out there) gave me a nice warm sunny holiday in Thailand with my family.

I hadn't been enjoying myself at the end of 2007 - there was the very cold weather (though I did get to wear my favourite duffle coat every day), my new job which I wasn't enjoying too much and a heap of other usual nit-picky things that can make or break your existence. Of course, being the over-reaching drama queen I am, lots of plates get broken.

It was brilliant to escape the London cold. Getting out of London was a breeze - the UK Gods clearly had had enough of me cursing them, as they gave me the benefit of an ON TIME train for the first time in a fortnight. Getting through the checkpoints at Heathrow was a breeze too - this is what happens when you're a control freak like me - I had already packed my 100ml bottles in a BAA-approved clear plastic bag already for quick inspection. Which gave me plenty of time to browse through duty free shops when I ordinarily hate Christmas shopping. Of course, when you've been given free samples of vodka, Baileys and chocolates at 10am there is a lot of Christmas cheer going around. I bought 6 pounds worth of Christmas biscuits in a hideously expensive gesture to my family and family friends who I was meeting in Thailand.

Getting off the flight was a bit of shock to the system - off came the scarves, jumpers, coats, gloves and beanies - I was sweating profusely as I made my way through the enormous new Bangkok airport. My mum/sister/brother were on another flight from Australia that had arrived minutes after my flight, so I was rather excited to see if I could find them. Alas, despite our baggage carousels being next to each other, I was the first to clear customs to meet my Dad. Then there they were - the rest of the circus straggling out. Brother - unshaven, unkempt, in thongs and tee breezed out like he had just drunk a jug of Pimms; sister - clearly in the aftershock of taking travel sickness pills (she's a bit of a poor traveller at the best of times), feet swollen and puffy eyes; and mum - struggling with suitcases she had insisted on pushing out herself.

It was nice to have the 5 of us together and I was talking non-stop - the effects of needing to relay 6 months worth of information before I decided that all I wanted was a cup of tea. Of course, being a Yiu, we can never sit still and do such leisurely things. Straight from the airport it was off to the floating markets in the outskirts of Bangkok which Dad and I had arranged.

The floating markets were a lot of fun, though a bit touristy. Seven people got into a single boat which one middle-aged lady was skippering by herself - an incredible feat to push all of us well-fed Westerners (erm... skinny Asian-Westerners) in a river which was getting more full by the minute. At one stage we were jammed in the middle of a scrum of boats with nowhere to go - but this little Thai lady was incredibly deft in steering us out. She sure put a shame to my driving skills on sealed urban roads. Paddling on we munched on guava and pomelo which we bought from boat-vendors (ok, "vendor" is a bit of a grand term for a poor Thai villager selling fruit from a leaky boat) and I laughed and laughed as we kept on getting stuck in the traffic jam, although I'm sure our captain was cursing our demands to "go here, no, over there! that direction! stop!".

Of course, being a family we had all emailed each other suggestions on what we wanted to do for the rest of the afternoon. Toby had requested a massage, and our family friends in Bangkok knew just the place to go. Toby was delighted - the venue was a 5-star day spa centre. I was secretly delighted, but had to agree with mum who wanted to go out exploring. So we compromised. A 2 hour massage was followed by a wander up and down the chaotic and steamy streets of Bangkok. But let me rub in the massage a bit (hee haw - groan). It was quite possibly the most painfully blissful experience in my life. The polite, demure, gentle Thai massage girl turned out to be brutal with the pressure points and her elbows. As Toby's masseuse explained, "hurt now, nice later". Bloody oath.

The brutal trip continued on with our flight down to Phuket with some family friends. I didn't think Phuket was anything special - the beach was nice, the people very friendly, but I felt that something was lacking. Quite possibly what was lacking was the tranquility with kids splashing about in the fabulous pool and creating a ruckus while I, the tired British civil servant, tried to read a book and drink cocktails in peace. The first day was spent mostly splashing about on the beach and the pool and spending some nice quality time with the family - a long forgotten feeling with the 5 of us wizzing around the world at breakneck speed. The second day, the Yiu family got bored of sitting around by the pool, carefully reapplying sunscreen every few hours (noticing that the people who were just as careful as us were other Australians) and we were off for walks along the coast and a set of golf lessons. One poor Balinese guy had the poor luck of having to teach 5 sports-challenged Chinese people how to play golf. He was hilarious however - he said that the 3 Yiu kids each had one good aspect of their swing that, when combined would be unbeatable. I didn't follow through properly, my sister had her grip wrong and Toby's backswing was too fast. "Be gentle!" he would say to Toby and I - "you are the man!". We laughed and thought about our day jobs.

Of course, with Thailand being so fabulously cheap, we managed to eat our way through an entire village's winter harvest in a few days. The food was oh so good. But what I did discover was coconut icecream. I have never been a fan of anything with coconut, but having decided to try something a bit different than the usual blueberry swirls or what have you (ok - i admit I blanched at the though of the purple Taro icecream). The spending of money continued with a bout of shopping for a tailor made shirt and suit and another massage. Oh. And another swim at the beach. Christmas Day was a bit strange in a holiday resort without the obligatory barbecue, but don't worry! don't panic! we managed to guzzle our way through crayfish, scallops and oysters anyway. I should be ashamed of my gluttony. But I'm not.

After 4 days of burning himself to a crisp by the pool, Toby decided he wanted to have some action, so we headed off to Phi Phi Island. We chartered a boat for the 7 of us which was great - it gave us flexibility to do what we wanted, rather than being forced to do everything under time limits set by tour operators with hundreds of other people. It was a bit of a trek to Phi Phi Island - but as we got closer, we noticed more and more boats speeding up behind us to join the absolute traffic jam of boats trying to get into the bays with the good snorkeling. We dropped in and out of some little bays (stopping off at one beach to feed the monkeys - well - we ended up just watching the other hoardes of tourists provoking the monkeys while we munched on pineapple which was cut up for us like corn-on-the-cob. The beaches and bays were so busy that we ended up going for an early lunch so that we could get out of the more busy areas and find our own way after lunch.

Phi Phi Island itself was crap. Backpacker tourists everywhere, touristy shops and just general overcrowding in the peak holiday season. Before we disembarked onto the main Phi Phi Island drag, we had passed an enormous boat so full of people that it looked dangerous. Toby, always having the most smart-arsed description for anything, called it the "refugee boat". And it actually DID look like it was a leaky old rustbucket about to capsize with too many desperate people fleeing from hell. Speeding past the refugee boat, Toby waved politely at the five hundred of them crowded on deck. Not one single person waved. So with all the dignity he could muster, he raised his third finger at the boat. I was mortified. I told him that I hoped that the refugee boat didn't dock at the same place we did.

Turns out that the refugee boat had booked out every restaurant for lunch. Talk about bad karma by association. After dodging the entire population of Queensland on the island, we settled on a small rather run-down eatery full of loud obnoxious Australians who loudly demanded that he wanted his tuna sandwich without mayonnaise. If the feral Aussie had been any more rude to the poor Thai waitress I would have pushed him underneath the refugee boat. I was sickened at how these backpackers, who loudly proclaim their cultural tolerance, carry on like they have evolved from under a rock. But back to our lunch. Being savvy travelers who travel a fair amount, we all ordered cooked food and cans of coke rather than bottles. Then the combination of the heat and hunger took its toll - Toby and I started to snipe at each other, escalating into a full-blown argument in the middle of the eatery. Now it was our turn for people to look at us - two similar looking Chinese boys nit-picking over the most mundane matters. Our parents even had to intervene. I felt right at home.

At the end of lunch it was off to find a nice snorkeling spot. We moored in a pristine and beautiful inlet, about 100 metres away from the beach. With not a single boat in sight, we attracted fish to the boat with bananas and got into the aqua water. While my siblings were pretty quick to dive in, I dithered about, fretting without having my glasses on and being completely blind in the water. With the stunning clear blue water now an enormous blur, I jumped in and paddled around. I relaxed and headed towards the beach. Then, terror struck. In front of me was what I thought was a jellyfish coming straight towards me. I flailed about in the water, taking gulps of seawater, making me gag, my snorkel filling with water and thrashed in a backwards direction. When I had managed to swim away, I resurfaced at the back of the boat - with the entire boat laughing at me.

I had swum past a plastic bag.

I really must look more carefully at those laser eye leaflets.

But it was time to head back to Bangkok for the Yius to split up again. Because Dad travels so often, we were upgraded to the executive suite at the hotel which was fabulous. It was a tough life, having high tea at the top level of the hotel. But it was back to reality.We were shocked to see that Benazir Bhutto had been assassinated - it is those moments when it only reinforces how privileged I am. To live in a democratic country where people aren't killed for merely turning up to place a piece of paper in a ballot box.

And then it was time to say goodbye to mum, sister and brother who were returning to Australia. Dad was flying to London for work meetings and would fly back with me. We spent the last day in Bangkok taking it easy, a slow breakfast with the papers, a wander through the streets, a simple lunch of noodles. Dad brought me along to meet one of his friends - an economic adviser to the Thai government. A chat about the Thai election turned into a Chinese dinner and a hunt for some cheap DVDs for me before it was time to fly home to London.

It was strange landing in London - I had massive deja vu of the feeling when I first arrived to live in London. And yet, I felt at home. Being back in my flat was reassuring, yet I couldn't get rid of the niggling feeling that this was someone else's flat.

Probably because of how tidy my flatmate had left it.